Bar Theory

Author: Kawcrow

Author's notes: Spike and Xander in a bar, getting drunk for no particular reason. What? You want a plot? With continuity and stuff?

Disclaimer: no ownership of characters etc. etc.

Rating: PG

~~~

"This," Xander said, "was a really bad idea." His hand shook visibly around the shot glass.

Spike blinked at him. "Which part was that?" he said. "This drink, or the ones before it?"

Xander said, "Which one had the plastic umbrella?"

"The fifth one," Spike said. "Until it dissolved. Some good stuff you got there."

Xander lifted his shaking right hand and scrutinized it with care. "I think my hands are dissolving, too," he said. "Which makes the whole thing a bad idea."

"Can't argue with you there," Spike said, "as it was your idea in the first place."

"If I had the energy," Xander said, "and if you weren't buying, you would be so dead. Deader than dead. Dead with the deadness of lots of large, heavy dead things. But if I stake you, your money will go dust with you, and I'm not done with your money yet. I, I could take it off you. Would have to go through your pockets, though. Don't know where you've been. Vampirey germs."

"God, you're a chatty drunk," Spike said.

"Pot calling the kettle... chatty," Xander said. "You're chatty, and--what else do you do when you drink?"

"What, me?" Spike said. "Drink more. Well, and killing things, in the old days. Sometimes I cry. Then drink some more. Usually not crying and killing things and drinking all at the same time, though, even in the old days--"

"Back that Batmobile up, Alfred," Xander said. "You're telling me Wi-William the Bloody, really annoying scourge of nations, gets some booze in him and starts crying like a six-year-old schoolgirl."

"You came up with the schoolgirl bit all by yourself, mate." Spike snaked his tongue around the rim of his glass. "But yeah."

"Yeah, you're the sensitive type," Xander said. "Know all about poetry and love and stuff. And the moon is made of Velveeta and molasses."

One scarred vampire eyebrow rose with the slowness and chill of an iceberg.

"Oh, don't give me that," Xander said. "Doomed Buffy love. Right." He lifted his glasses and sloshed it slowly in a circle. "Cheers."

"Chatty and pissy," Spike said. "Somebody can't hold his liquor if it's not safely in a paper bag."

"You've had about a century longer than me to ruin your evil undead oniony liver, so don't gloat," Xander said. "People don't find that attractive."

"Is that a fact? Because I've been told--"

"Oh, shut up. New round."

There was a long, reverent pause for proper alcohol appreciation.

"Aww, man," Xander said. He pulled a tiny sizzling wooden umbrella from his glass. "Another one bites the dust. No offense."

"Ulp," Spike said. "I think I drank mine."

"You keep drinking like that, and your eyes'll be bloodshot in the morning," Xander said. He waggled his eyebrows.

After a pause, Spike said, "That is so sad."

"No, no, it's okay. It's funny. Funny! Bloodshot. Yeah." Xander gestured grandiosely with his glass, splashing Spike in the head. "'Cause, 'cause, blood. Which you drink. And, and, shotglass. Get it? Get it?"

"Yeah," Spike said, his tone solemn. "That's the sad part." He put his head down on the bar and began to sob.

Xander waved his other, dissolving hand at the bartender. "Another round for me and Little Vamp Fauntleroy here," he said. "And I want a metal umbrella this time, dammit."

End.