*****

Xander has fallen into a double life again. He spends his nights with the Scoobies, plus assorted joiners like Tara and Spike and the farmboy who walks like a soldier. Not to mention his very own Anya. Nights of combat and vampires and worry over Adam, wee hours spent at home with a demon turned girl-like, screwing her boneless.

And then... daytime. Gold and sunshine and Larry. Larry who died in this world. Larry who escaped the hellish alternate universe of the vamp-Willow and came back to a Xander who hadn't let himself think about how much he missed the original version. Or how badly he fucked up.

Xander doesn't know much, but he's sure he's too goddam young to have so many regrets.

Of course, he's only creating more here, investing in future pain, building a hedge against any possibility of a happy future. He can see already that this can't end well. Cheating on Anya, former vengeance demon to the stars. It's faintly possible that this is even dumber than sucking face with Willow behind Cordy's back.

And yet--for the moment--this time with Larry is cleanly separated from the rest of his life. It's confined to the boarding house of the ancient warlock who brought Larry here. It's sunshine, it's vamp-free, it's like being sixteen and infatuated. It's strangely innocent. He and Larry fuck through the day and then he grabs a meal and maybe three hours of sleep and nobody cares, nobody tries to kill them, nobody gives him shit about who he is supposed to be or how he's living his life.

Sometimes the two of them get up and repair some part of the mouldering house. Sometimes they get Larry's great-uncle Corky into the tub and scour him before he heads out on the next stage of his never-ending magical mystery binge. Sometimes Xander goes grocery shopping for the three of them, dipping into the old man's enchanted cookie jar, an old hunk of crockery that bursts with twenty dollar bills and--totally with permission--pocketing the change. At some point he and Larry even decide that he should just tell the Scoobies that he's taking care of an old retired guy. He does, and when it lasts for more than three weeks a weird thing develops among his friends--not so much respect because he's finally holding down a job, but a lessening of the unspoken contempt, just because he hasn't lost it.

It'll do. Xander Harris has spent a lifetime *thriving* on scraps.

Which makes him sound bitter and cynical and unhappy, which is profoundly not the case. He's getting so much sex he shouldn't, by rights, be able to get it up. He's got a job in the Sunnydale underground mystic economy, he's got a girlfriend he likes a lot and a boyfriend he's thinking he maybe... well, maybe he loves him, okay, but we don't have to get into that now...

The nights are what they have always been, and the days are glorious.

Truth is, he's delirious. He's out so much the crap he's taking at home is minimal. Buffy and Willow are distant and school-involved, sure, but in the last week or so he's sensed movement on that front, some kind of delicate mutation that he hopes might take them from high-school budness into adult friendship. Hell, he's even got the new-improved and utterly helpless Spike to piss on, when he's feeling like being a shit to someone.

So why the bitchy attitude, you ask? It's simple enough. It can't last, he doesn't deserve it, the world just isn't that kind.

Basically, he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. And when it does, it'll be one of those big floppy clown shoes, just you wait and see.

* * *

"How did I die?" They're ensconced in their favorite pile of blankets up in the attic, roasting in the California sun, and Larry has his hand loosely wrapped around Xander's cock. Foreplay chatter, something neither of them has ever successfully managed with anyone else. He snuggles closer, faintly aware that this should be a weird conversation, but otherworld Larry's so angst-free and happy to be in the kinder, gentler Sunnydale that it's no big deal to answer.

"There was a battle at the high school. Big monster."

"The Master?"

"Bigger. You ever see the end of Aladdin?"

Larry considers this, drawing one finger over the tip of Xander with an expression that says he just wants to see him quiver. "The big snake?"

"Yeah. But red instead of green, with sick tendencies in the direction of polite. Anyway, it was him against the graduating class. You were manning the flamethrower and it tossed you sky-high and then down onto concrete."

"Graduating..." Savoring the word, the blond-red head bends down, and his tongue teases Xander's navel. "And that was it? Crunch, end of story?"

"Lare? Do you think we're starting to talk alike?" Larry puts some teeth into his exploration, slow nibbling bites cutting the narrowing space between navel and his rising cock, and Xander clenches his fist around the blankets and concentrates on the conversation thing. "No, that wasn't the end. You--he... was in hospital for awhile. They were having a two for one deal on coma patients who'd screwed me..."

Larry grins--they've had the Faith-was-my-first convo. "Hospital," he prompts. Has to prompt, because he's reached the head of Xander's cock.

"He was supposed to make a full recovery but they missed some internal thing. He woke up but didn't recover. Did sort of a slow fade and linger, died three weeks into summer. Or so I heard."

"You weren't here?" No blame, no judgement--in fact, Larry's talking with his mouth full, which always makes Xander want to giggle.

"I'd run off," he says. "I had what Giles would call issues, and he was supposed to get better. I thought I had time..."

"Yeah," Larry gargles, going deep on Xander. "Boy do I know that one." And then he takes Xander as fully into his throat as he can, and they flee their respective ghosts with a pull of lips, a buck of hips, the mindless sweet world of now and the body.

* * *

That night he's out with Buffy in a graveyard--the graveyard, actually--ears still burning because just before they cut out on patrol Anya had announced to all and sundry that Xander's stamina was becoming of the phenomenal.

The Slayer's in one of those good moods, wearing her 'hey c'mere vamp, I just wanna kill you a little' face. Reilly's resurfaced after a week in recovery from Adam-induced injuries. Now he's out with Professor Walsh's non-local brother, telling the guy some facile unclassified lies about the dead mad doctor's vocation. Buffy and Xander have been strolling the darkside for a couple hours, kibbitzing with the undead and gossiping about whether Willow and Tara are, or if they want to, or if maybe the two of them are just imagining things for the pure fun of it.

It's a big old verbal free for all, lots of quips and comebacks with the occasional splash of battle thrown in. During the chatter over Willow he even manages to plant a few cues that he wouldn't be entirely same-sex averse, subtle hints that don't set off any of Buffy's alarms. There's no way to walk away from the fact that he's cheating on Anya, but prepping his friends for the coming carnage is by no means a bad thing.

By chance the conversation lulls and they find themselves standing in front of Ms. Calendar's gravestone. There's one of those awkward moments while Buffy thinks of Angel and feels guilty, while Xander thinks of Angel and feels angry. They don't look at each other. Then it passes.

"One of the few still-loaded boxes in the whole of this boneyard," he muses.

"As far as we know," Buffy says grimly. Her eye scans left, then right, and lands on Harmony's memorial.

"We should bribe the undertakers to alarm the caskets," he says. "Minute the weight's off the bottom of the box, a light starts beeping at the Buffcave. Look out, Slayer, Principal Snyder's on the loose!"

"Now that is a frightening--" Her smirk dissolves and she pushes him aside in mid-sentence, vaulting over the grave with the kill-kill light in her eyes as three vampires charge. Xander gets one with the stake in a not-entirely-dorky way. By the time Buffy has dusted the other two, the discussion has moved back to Willow's sex life.

But Xander's mind is less apt to dwell on things sexual these days than ever before, and inside the derailed topic about the coffins, he finds something there that blossoms into a full-fledged idea.

* * *

Next day he scrounges time out of the grocery run to track down Iowa's biggest contribution to democracy. He shows Reilly a portable sonar rig from the Initiative's classified inventory list--a handy little hardware catalogue he ripped off last time they did a sneaky run down below--and he asks if they've ever surveyed the Sunnydale cemeteries.

"Does this have something to do with Adam?" Reilly asks.

"Don't think so. Planning for a future, post FrankenWalsh."

The blue eyes darken in a way that Larry's do occasionally, when they're talking about his old life in the helliverse. "I'm all for advance recon, but I don't think we can spare the manpower right now."

That's okay, thinks Xander; it's more or less what he was hoping. "Can you spare the gadget?"

"Sure," he says, so calmly Xander's a bit surprised. Poor bastard, he thinks, I wonder when you'll realize that military career is toast? Ah well, it's not Xander's problem and thank the Hellmouth for that. He slings the sonar--conveniently concealed in a civilian-friendly pack--on his back, says his thanks, and beats a retreat before Reilly has a chance to think better of it. Which he definitely should, and probably won't.

* * *

At this point what he has isn't even a plan, just a vague idea that it would be a good, or a useful, or hell, maybe even it would just be interesting to know which members of Sunnydale's dead population are still parked in their boxes and which ones are roaming the night. Sure, that's all it is. And he starts at the central graveyard because that's where the most people they know personally are buried. He's not up to anything. He's not afraid of anything. He's not concerned about anyone specific.

It takes awhile to get a feel for the thing. So many people vanish in Sunnydale that the morticians regularly bury crash test dummies in some of the boxes. Still, the mannequins scan differently from human remains, and even more differently from the hollow coffins.

He scores a plot-plan off the groundskeeper for thirty bucks and works his way back and forth, spending an hour here, an hour there. Doesn't let himself head anywhere specific, doesn't think too much about what he's doing. Once he picks up something moving in a newly-buried dentist's plot and he sets Buffy on it. They do the exhumation detail and for once he doesn't have to do all the digging, because she brings Reilly and Reilly brings Forrest.

Bim-bam-zap! The Initiative takes a big-toothed demon down to its vaults and everyone agrees that Xander is not without a certain amount of brainishness.

And so he keeps it up, back and forth across the rows and making the occasional interesting discovery. Snyder's still down below, the Mayor's assistant is handily ensconced, Miss Calendar hasn't moved a jot...

And then--two weeks after he started--the moment he hasn't admitted he has been waiting for ever since the two of them talked it over...

*... he was supposed to get better, and then suddenly he didn't....*

Original dead gay Larry's grave.

And it's empty.

* * *

Now what? Tell someone? Which he probably should, but who? And does he tell them that whatever kind of undead Larry is roaming the night should be carefully distinguished from the live alternate Larry that's living in the boarding house? And if so, does he admit that the two of them have been hanging out? Okay fucking, all right, they've been fucking.

Decisions, decisions.

He starts by asking Reilly if there's anything vaguely Larrylike in the Initiative holding cells. Comes up dry, as he expected. Puts off 'fessing up for another day and goes to the hospital, chats up a couple nurses. One of them, a big gay guy from New Orleans, remembers something white-blond and leather-clad maybe lurking in the vicinity of intensive care. Spike then, before his trip to the vet. Making baby vampires, which Xander sort of thought he didn't do. It gives him the creeps, frankly; the idea of Spike with even the rudimentary maternal instincts of the undead.

He tells himself it's okay to keep mum another day while he braces the William the Bloody for information.

* * *

Thing is, he and Spike--even Larry, sort of--have a bit of history. Last spring Xander discovered he has the world's most double-edged superpower, the ability to seduce anybody he wants. Slayers tragically excepted, he can have anybody he wants. Body and soul, they're his.

Said discovery led to an affair with Larry, which was nice, and then a thing with Spike, which definitely was not. He'd unleashed the whammy on Spike when Larry's life was in danger, and it worked fine as a delaying tactic. Still, the fallout from that fucked him up for awhile, and after the Mayor was dead and Larry was in hospital, Xander had come over petulant and refused to see him. He took himself out on a long colossal sulk on the road without even saying goodbye.

By the time he had his shit together Larry was dead.

But apparently not buried, at least not anymore.

The Scoobies weren't insensitive. When the watered-down Spike came looking for help at Giles', they gave Xander all the time in the world to stake the fucker, every opportunity to refuse him shelter and laugh while he starved. The license is still there, as far as he knows. Giles has even sent Spike home with him a couple times, and at least once he seemed distinctly disappointed when Xander showed up with him in tow the next night.

Ha ha. Kill him yourself, Watcherman.

It's not like he didn't think about staking Spike. But by and large all of them--Giles, the girls, Spike, even Xander himself--have dealt with the whole stupid situation by pretending the whole thing never happened. Spike never bit Xander, Spike never fucked Xander, Spike never hurt Xander in any way shape or form that anyone will mention. Everything all very nicey nicey but hey, kid, if you ever want to dust the guy, not one of us will stop you.

It's worked okay. Just another series of dysfunctional Kodak moments on the Hellmouth. Xander got his own back some time ago--he ran into Spike in Mexico. He'd figured that as long as Spike was useful to the team, the two of them could co-exist.

Which worked fine and dandy, until the conversation with the New Orleans nurse. Now Xander's royally hosed. For awhile he just leans there against the hospital corridor, eyes closed, trying not to imagine Larry helpless in bed with Spike fastened to his neck like a lamprey. Tries not to feel like its his--Xander's--fault.

*... thought he was gonna make it. I had issues, I fucked off...*

I left him to die.

Finally he shakes it off, at least enough to sharpen a stake and load up some gear. Then he heads off to the crypt which is home to the vampire formerly known as Big Bad.

Spike's keyed up the minute Xander arrives--he's stretched out casually on a slab of concrete, quaffing his blood and wheaties, but they know each other too well; Xander's not fooled. Stress crackles off the vamp, and his dead eyes glitter like crystals of arsenic.

Of course, Xander's plan--to act laid back himself, and sneak the interrogation in later--is equally blown to hell. They're neither of them fooling each other. Weird hate vibes and weirder sex vibes coil between them like snakes. Maybe he should have gone the Ripper route and pounded Spike's face in the first time Giles sent him home to Xander's basement.

But he leans near the door and gets his jaw working. "Nice quiet evening at home, huh?"

"Sod off; I've only been up for an hour. Besides, bloody Initiative's out in force tonight."

"I saw them. One good yell and they'd be all over us."

Spike flinches, ever so slightly, and then regathers his dignity. "Just tell me what you want, pet."

"Sure. Pet." Xander feels his voice dropping. Sometimes when he's angry his hands and words tremble. Then there are other times when they don't, when he's ice-cold still and absolutely murderous. "You turned a football player last year."

"I turned *your* football player, yeah." Elegant shrug and calm voice--Spike's not sorry, but he isn't defiant or defensive either. Honest but trying for non-inflammatory. "I knew you'd worked a spell on me, I knew you'd done it to save the great wankin' brat. Killing him seemed only reasonable at the time."

"At the time," he repeats, dully disbelieving.

"Well, if I had it to do over again..."

"You'd do it over again."

"Sure, but maybe not for the same reason." Spike lets out a hint, just a hint of a grin. "He'd have made a better companion than Harmony, I'll tell you that much."

"You just don't know when to shut up, do you?" With that, Xander uncorks a bottle of holy water, tosses a faint splash at the vampire. Easy and controlled, slow movements. He's perfectly safe here, no need to rush. Blisters gout from Spike's hand and he curses, stumbling back and away. "You dragged it out, didn't you? Went back for seconds, thirds?" Splash again.

"Maybe a little." Thin bravado. "Wasn't anyone around to stop me, was there?"

"I'm going to burn your dick off," Xander says softly. Which is interesting, because he sounds so calm, and it clearly scares the shit out the vampire, while the inner Xander is screaming for undead blood. Whatever truce he's made with last year's horrific Spike-related events, it's all gone now. "Okay, Spike. Million dollar question. Where is Larry now?"

"Cor, I don't know!" Another splash, this time on the front of the t-shirt. "He's staked!"

"You're sure?" he advances into the tomb, until they're only a few feet apart, and pours the rest of it on Spike's belly. "You saw it?"

Spike pants and refuses to shriek; wise move, because the Initiative really is out there. "He hasn't been around, has he? Slayer always gets the young ones."

"Gee, I am absolutely mourning the undead's tragic loss of youth," Xander says. He retrieves a second bottle from his pocket.

"I'm telling you the truth," Spike hisses.

"Actually, I believe you." Xander uncorks the bottle anyway. "Tell me something else, Spike, and please don't think I'm feeding your ego. We both know that most of your kind are... let's face it, they're about as sharp as bowling balls. How did you and Dru and Angel get to be the special few with more going on upstairs than snack, sleep and moulder?"

Spike's face gets vampy and unhappy all at once; clearly he doesn't want to answer. Xander up-ends the holy water onto his very wet shirt, getting it low enough this time that the crotch of his jeans is getting damp. The smell coming off the vampire is like a laundry, and he fights back a shriek this time.

"Patronage," he manages. "Usually it's just having your sire around to teach you the ropes. That and time. Aptitude, age and experience."

"Anything else?"

"Well, occasionally even a newborn trips over some kind of magic item that gives 'em a boost... but it's very rare."

"So. If he's still out there--"

"Which is unlikely."

"And you haven't been giving him helpful pointers..."

"Which I have not, more's the pity."

"And he hasn't stumbled over the Eye of Nike or the Orb of IBM..."

"No reason in the world to assume that he has," Spike agrees through gritted teeth. "Then yes, he's almost certainly a vacant-eyed, slack-jawed killer with all the brains of salt taffy. Red's pet mouse could take him out with a bit of luck. Now are you going to bloody let me go, or are you going to torture me to death?"

Xander manages a pleased grin, though it's so not a reflection of how he feels. He's fucked. Vampire Larry's out there with the Toe of Nissan or something, for sure for sure. Mage for a great-uncle. Of course he's a supervillain. "No, Spike, I'm not gonna torture you to death." He puts his palm flat against the holy-soaked t-shirt and grinds it in, though, and just before the vampire collapses he knees him as hard as he can in the crotch. "Not exactly, anyway," he amends, as Spike goes down, muffling his cries against his sleeve.

Then he turns, leaves the crypt, heads out across the green and goes straight to where Forrest is hiding. "You want to make a few brownie points, Soldier? I got a bead on your escapee."

* * *

He indulges in a daydream on the way back across town. In it, he tells Larry--new alternate still-alive Larry--about the evil old undead Larry first thing tomorrow morning. And Larry's a little freaked but able to deal. Maybe a little comfort sex is required, but it's okay. While he's at it he'll fill him in on other ugly details of the tale of Spike to date.

Then he gets Buffy alone and fills her in. She's not emotionally wrapped in any of his mess this time, and she gives him two minutes of 'learn to be monogamous' and relents. The two of them go to Giles and Willow, and that's fine. He even has time to paint himself a Technicolor Willow comes out scene and start to work on what to do about Anya before he starts to clue in that there's trouble. Going on. Right where he is.

Shit. He slows down, does the peer-at-the-street thing like every victim in every dumb horror movie he's ever seen or lived. Nothing, of course. And who was the idiot who poured every last drop of holy water on Spike? Shit, shit, shit. Maybe there's some holy residue on his hands.

Nah, that's sweat.

Well, assuming it *is* a vamp that's after him, not Adam, not a demon, the best thing to do is to break into someone's house. Slip in a basement window if it's possible, throw himself on the homeowners' mercy, and if they don't phone the cops and have him dragged off to jail, he might convince them to let him call the Scoobies.

That's when the police car, as if summoned by his thoughts, rolls around the corner. It's moving slow-mo, cruising. Xander has never been so happy to see anything in his life. He falls into a drunken stagger, imitating Harris elders running back three generations, and just so they don't miss the point he wanders right smack into their path, crooning incoherently under his breath and ready to jump like a rabbit if their brakes go out.

They don't. The cruiser slows to a crawl and then stops. Xander puts his hands on the hood, leans in, squints drunkenly at the two uniforms as if trying to figure out how the heck they ended up here, in the middle of the street. In a car, for heaven's sake.

"You okay, kid?" one of them says, predictably enough. She gets out of the car and puts a friendly hand on Xander's shoulder. He wobbles against it and she sighs, spins him, and cuffs him easily. "Come on."

Hey, a night in the drunk tank! Xander finally does something his folks can relate to!

He gets into the car, docile as a lamb, and grins as the door slams home. He can't resist the temptation to peer out the back window, trying to see if he can spot the danger he knows, just knows, is out there.

"Four eleven reporting in," says the female cop in a bored voice.

"Go ahead, four eleven, over."

"We have him, over."

It's a second before he really feels it, that heavy-gauge clown shoe finally flopping down on him. He turns away from the back window and the receding view of the street and looks through the heavy escape-proof grate at the two cops in the car. The guy just looks unhappy, but the woman...

She's a vampire.

* * *

It's a short ride and he doesn't bore them with theatrics. Why bother? They take him to the police station--which is chillingly far from the university and from Giles' place--and haul him to a cell filled with sweating and fearful bikers, homeless kids, junkies.

"No phone call?" he asks, and the woman clubs him before sliding the bolt home.

He waits until she's out of earshot before whispering to the closest guy, an anemic and multiply bitten mafia type. "Anyone got a cell phone?"

The guy shakes his head slightly and cuts his eyes up at the corner of the room. There's cameras up there, enough to cover every angle of the cell. Or should he say pen? They've locked him up with the veal.

Which raises some questions. How many vamps are there in this place? Does he really want to know? How many hoods can a vampire suck... and shut up, Harris, this is getting you nowhere.

* * *

After two days in the pen it's clear nobody is coming to find him. He's been bitten twice and it's getting harder to tell himself that the cop's having said "we've got him" means that somebody higher up cares he's in this hole. Harder to believe he's just being softened up for bigger and worser things. Maybe he'll just die here, and nobody will know the difference.

They get protein shakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It's too cramped in the cell to lie down and during the day he can hear people crying in other cells out of sight. There is a cell full of women who are also for the feeding; he also gathers that the families of the non-dead cops are locked up here, convenient hostages to keep the day shift in line.

He's tired, he's drained, he's scared and he reeks. Plus going without sex for two days after you've been getting it every two hours... or maybe that's just being cooped up and jostling with all these desperate men. Anyway, he's horny.

Nothing he can do about that, though. None of these guys even cracks a smile at his jokes.

The third time someone comes for him, it's the female vamp who grabbed him in the first place. He managed to keep his cool the other times, but now he freaks. Nothing new in this place--the other incarcerees barely blink as he fights and loses, getting himself dragged out to what he and the others grimly call the snack bar, a converted interrogation room with shackles and bloodstained walls. She chains him face down, slides her teeth into the back of his neck, growls faintly while Xander fights the cuffs and chants silently to himself: not this time, not this time, not this time...

And he's right. She stops just before he's about to lose consciousness, but this time she doesn't untie him. She leaves him there on the table--first time he's actually been prone and half-comfortable in days--and walks out. He hears the lock slide tight and, when his heart slows, feels trauma-induced sleepiness descending upon him.

Larry, he thinks. Buffy. Anya. Wills.

And then he's out, gone.

* * *

When he wakes up it's dark, he's still chained face down on an interrogation table, suffering the aches and pains that come with sleeping on a hard surface. His hands have gone to sleep and he's chilled and shivering. Starring as vamp leftovers will do that to a guy.

"You rested, Harris?" A cold fingernail teases his bare toes. It's Larry's... Dead Larry that is, and the voice is the big bad bully voice of old.

Xander decides this is as good a time as any to start feeling *really* sorry for himself. "Quite the set-up, Larry," he manages. "You inherit this from the Mayor?"

"Just the initial investment. I've been expanding the operation." The hand travels up the leg of his jeans, barely brushing the skin. It stops and cups his ass speculatively, squeezing. Xander goes icicle inside and out. This is taking him somewhere he won't--can't--revisit.

"No choices," hisses the Larryvamp, as if he has picked up on the thought.

Shit, no no no. He hasn't even let good Larry top him since they got together. He catches himself about to descend into panicked struggles and manages to put a hold on the hysteria. Weak and tied up, all he has is his brain. And his mouth, if he can figure out what to say. Think... think!

Then that option goes away, too. Larry rolls a wet and tacky wad of something claylike over his chin and lips, clamping his voice away. Can't do this, can't do this... the voice chitters in his head. The sound of a zipper blows his control, starts him jerking at the shackles and the cold hands are rubbing his hips in exactly the same way Larry does, why couldn't he have been given the power to repel people instead, no, no, quit it...

And then he's...

Somewhere else.

It's not a real place, he can see that immediately. It's bright and sun-lit, but the sky is scrimmed over with butter-colored fog and the hardwood floor beneath his feet stretches in every direction, all the way to the horizon. It's warm and the air smells of camomile and lilac. He's naked, but his stomach's full and his aches have receded to nearly nothing.

Larry's there.

*****

He yanks back, bucks away three steps even before he realizes it's the good Larry, the not-dead one. Then it's no dignity time--he runs, clings, even sobs. Strong arms wrap around him and he breathes in the live-flesh smell, the blood under the skin. Is this some drug thing the cop vamps are doing to him?

Don't care.

Finally he pulls himself back together. "Where are we?"

"Astral plane," Larry says.

"How..."

"I've been studying up on magic at nights while you're gone. Nothing else to do--I can't go out and the books are in Corky's study." The broad, beloved grin. Xander pulls him close and kisses him as hard as he can. Which his strangely not-hard; it's like he has no muscle here.

"Astral... I'm not dead?"

Larry shakes his head.

"But my body's..."

"Right where you left it." Larry points to a small knot in the wooden floor and Xander presses his eye to it. He sees himself, small and far away, like a slide under a microscope. He's still on the table, still fighting mindlessly. Dead Larry has torn his clothes off.

"Fuck," he says. "Can you get me out?"

"Maybe," Larry says, his expression unhappy.

"What's the downside?"

"I could maybe get you and me back to my home universe."

"Shit," Xander says.

"Yeah."

"Where the Master's still alive and Buffy is not."

"Yeah."

"Then the Slayer is... Faith?" He feels a faint burning, down around his asshole, and is tempted to just give Larry the go-ahead. Sure, let's run away. But a deeper part of him won't let him say it... won't let him decide too quickly and drag Larry back to his own personal hell. "Okay, ouch. I'm feeling some of that..."

"I can't cut you off from your body, not entirely. S'why you're still struggling."

"Automatic pilot, huh?"

"He might get suspicious if you go completely limp on him. Besides, I don't know enough to be sure I can put you back. I can distract you, though..." Larry pulls him more tightly into his embrace, kisses him gently. "What do you say? Want to bail?"

"Not without a way back," Xander says. The burning intensifies, but only a bit, and it's not too bad in the grand scheme. Phone in assault victim, cool. Considering the alternative, it's great. "Real estate may be cheap in your home universe..."

"Job market's pretty good, too. Lots of labour shortages."

"But I am definitely not looking to live somewhere even more fucked up than this."

"So what do we do?"

He delays answering by roaming his hands over the warmth that is Larry's body. The clothes peel away like snakeskin shedding and they lie side-by-side in the shredded bits, sort of on the floor but sort of floating above it, too. The heat and radiance are calming, and the mutual nudity is underwhelming in the arousal department. "Can't get off in the astral plane, huh?

"Is that *all* you think about?" The blue eyes are wide and deeply unhappy, an utterly reasonable response considering the situation Xander's body is in, down there through the knothole. Xander's just relieved about being partially away from it, about having some escape options. As far as he's concerned, he's just dodged a big sanity-exploding bazooka shell.

"I think about all sorts of things. You want a list?"

"Getting you out of there," Larry prompts.

"Relax, Lare..."

"Fuck that. Evil twins suck, Harris."

"I'm on it, okay? Here's the plan. We wait like this until we're sure he's not going to actually suck me dry right now. Then you put me back and sneak out of the boarding house, find yourself a nice phone somewhere. You call Anya. Nobody else. Tell her enough to get her to meet you without she should involve Buffy and the others."

"Then what?"

"Tell them everything except who's got me and where I am." Larry frowns, his face breaking out all reluctant, but Xander waves a glowing astral finger. "This is important. Evil you has a penchant for hostages, Larry. Plus there's a hell of a lot of vamps there."

"Plus vampire me with magic items," he mutters darkly.

"We don't want her anywhere close."

"Okay."

"You say you can get us to the other Sunnydale and find out if she can get us back afterward. She'll need Corky's help. Make sure they're sure they can do it."

"Hey... that sounds okay."

"And please god, remember that I want to be the one to tell Anya about you and me."

That gets him a scowl. "Our coming out is in the cellar of the priority list..."

"The woman was a vengeance demon, Larry. I'd rather go back to my body right now than piss her off--"

"Really?"

"No, not really. I'm trying to be emphatic here."

"Okay, fine. I get it."

"So whatever lies you have to tell to cover my ass..."

"I said okay," Larry says. But the hurt's momentary; the cranky goes out of his expression almost immediately. "You think it'll work? We can get you out of there and then come back to this world?"

"I'm sure hoping so." His stomach tightens as it chews on the implications... at some point he's got to go back to vampLarry's house of pain for awhile.

"I don't know. Maybe we should bring in the big guns."

"Buffy's got Adam to worry about." This can work, he tells himself. "Let's leave the Slayer to focus on the greater of two supervillains, at least for now. They'll still be backup. If Anya and Corky can't get us back, the two of them can recruit Willow and Tara to help. Besides, a straighforward rescue won't complicate my life nearly enough."

Larry does a long unhappy mid-air roll. "Sounds okay," he says finally, and they settle in to wait and see what evil Larry's gonna do with the banged-up vessel that is Xander's mostly abandoned body.

* * *

Some things don't change when you die. After sex, vampLarry still likes pillow talk. Xander reluctantly returns to a world of gruesome sensation, of fantasizing about paralyzing spinal injuries and fuck if it didn't hurt *exactly* like this when Spike did him, too. Like sire, like vamp.

Larry's unchained him, carrying him up into the fluorescent bright sanctum of Sunnydale's police chief, a deposed and hollow-eyed shell who sits outside the door like a kid waiting to see the principal. He's clinging to a photograph of his family and trembling as Larry lifts Xander over the threshold of his office and kicks the door shut behind them. There's a big yellow-gold couch, bloodstained but still cozy-soft after the cell and the snack bar. Larry rolls him onto the cushions and peels the weird gag off his face.

"So, Harris," he says. "Was it the best you ever had?"

"It was definitely the most recent," he says, and then flinches. Don't piss him off, Smartmouth, he thinks, you've got to stay alive for a few hours at least while Larry hooks up with Anya.

But the vampire doesn't hit or kill him, just chuckles indulgently. "Spike said you'd whore for anyone."

Fuck. Why didn't he have the sense to just act catatonic? Now he's in a conversation with this fucking vampire rapist, and they're talking about Spike of all things. Yuck yuck and yuck some more.

Well, act freaked out, says the inner voice. Change the subject. You're traumatized, remember?

"Buffy is gonna kill you," he says. Which has the virtue of being something he both means and believes.

"I don't think so, Harris." The vamp peels off his game face, which makes him look distressingly like.. himself. Xander turns away and gets his gaze cranked back by a big, cold hand. "I'm not the Master. I'm not the Mayor. I'm not even Angelus. I'm not sitting on a big world-destroying scheme. I'm not even plotting to Kill the Slayer. Waste of energy, man--all it does is piss her off."

"Yeah? What are you doing then, huh?"

"All my energies--" VampLarry sweeps his free hand, the one that isn't clamped on Xander's chin--around the police chief's office. "Are going into building a winning team. A sustainable situation for me and mine. If that electro Frankenstein out at the University wants to bring on the apocalypse, that's his business. She'll fry him, or he'll fry her. Either way, I'm around for the long haul." The smile that comes with this is the trademark Larry grin, and Xander feels tears springing to his eyes.

"It won't work."

"There isn't anything to work," Larry says. "I'm not up to anything you all need to decode and solve and crush. I'm entrenched, that's it. Plus..." Gentle kiss on Xander's cheek. "I've got you, Harris."

"Which gets you what?" He's descending into panic; the distance is dissolving. Noodle-weak fingers scrabble at the vampire's strong hand on his face. Rotten blood-breath whiffs against his skin as dead gay Larry's blue eyes shine hell-light into his. "Bait for a trap? A hostage?"

"Don't sell yourself short, man. Who does the scut work for that crew, huh? Who tells her flat out when she's fucking up? Who tried to do the smart thing where Angelus was concerned? You, you, you." Each you is punctuated by another kiss. "Which one of the little band of musketeers actually swims through shit for her?"

"Yeah, me," Xander hisses, still struggling. "Right, I'm the lynchpin."

"They may never figure it out... but trust me, without you, the whole operation's fucked." The vampire regards him without irony.

Holy shit, Xander thinks, it's the spell. He's still in love with me. That's gotta be it.

VampLarry plants one more kiss on his forehead and then walks out of the office. Xander hears him issuing orders to the police chief, instructions involving clothes, followed by obscene threats involving the guy's son.

Okay, good work. Didn't die. Escape plan in progress. Just be sure to hurry and save me, Larry. Because if he's anything like you--har dee har har--he'll want to do me again in three hours.

* * *

The police chief has a serious case of prematurely ancient--his eyes are slate-dead and he's got all the spring in his step of a resurrected mummy. He wraps Xander in a blanket and wheelchairs him down to a shower room on the ground floor. Xander could probably walk, but he doesn't see the sense in acting less than shell-shocked, and anyway the guy clearly has a routine. Chief stands aside passively as Xander cleans himself up, and then wearily hands him clothes--a police uniform, actually, sans badge and gun. The uniform feels surprisingly right on Xander's frame.

As soon as he's clean he scopes the room. Tiles and steam. No cameras.

"They listening?" he whispers. The police chief jumps like 300 volts have hit him and peers at Xander like Fido the Sunnydale Crime Dog has spoken to him. Subtle as hell. But finally he manages to shake his head.

"Okay," Xander says. "I'm gonna get you all out of this. But it's gonna take time, get it? Time. And you are going to have to help out. Can you do that?"

"I can't let you go," the guy says. His voice is scratchy, like he hasn't said a word in days.

"That's covered," Xander says. "Don't worry about it. Now... what can you still actually do? Call people? Write letters? Send faxes? I mean, he's got to be keeping you around because it's easier than getting rid of you."

"I do a weekly press briefing and liaison with other law enforcement agencies." He purses bloodless lips, considering. "I could get letters out."

"I need tactical information on the situation here," Xander says. The Chief is four degrees of stunned, but he nods. "How many of them, how many of you, how long it's been going on. Hostage locations. Weak spots. Weapons. Shift rotation. Anything you can think of that'll help us plan. You can do that?"

He nods.

"Okay. You send it to..." He thinks it over. Who won't open his mail? "Me. Xander Harris. You mark them Personal and Confidential. You mail them to Reilly Finn at the University's Psych department. Got that?"

The guy nods.

"Keep sending them until we come. It could be awhile."

"He catches me, he'll kill my kid."

"It'll happen anyway, sooner or later." Xander squeezes his shoulder and feels how crumbly this man is. VampLarry's run this operation for... what, a year? And before that, who knows what kind of leash the mayor had him on?"

"Or turn him," the Chief shudders. "Yeah."

"Just don't get caught. What are you supposed to be doing with me now that I'm cleaned up? Back to the cells?"

"No. My office."

"Okay." Xander curls up in the wheelchair and tries to look suitably fuck-shocked. It's remarkably hard--his mind's racing, and he's eager to just get on with it. Somehow, he doesn't have the slightest doubt that Larry will get him out of here, that Anya will get him home. Weirdly, he actually feels like his biggest problem is cleaning out the SPD's vamp nest. Maybe the policeman's uniform's going to his poor anemic head.

"I'd kill for a blood transfusion," he says idly. "And maybe an epidural."

"There's Tylenol in my desk," the cop mutters, and then the wheelchair bumps as they get underway.

end