Good Cop Gone Bad      by Wyrdchaos

"Oh bloody hell, "   Spike swore to himself as he pulled the sleek car over to the soft shoulder of the highway. The siren cut off as the patrol car pulled in behind him. He tapped his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, idly playing with the idea of making a run for it. That would be a right bit of fun, taking the copper on a joy ride at a hundred miles an hour. He sighed and let go of that fantasy. Even if the soul would let him, police nowadays had all that lovely technology at their beck and call: radios, helicopters, and whatnot. Eventually, they'd either catch him or he'd have to ditch the car. Where would the fun be in stealing one of the Angelmobiles, if he didn't have at least a speeding ticket to show for it?

The knuckles rapping on his window dragged Spike out of his 'taking the piss out of Angel'   reverie. He quickly unrolled his window.

"Good evening, Sir. Please get out of the car with your license and registration."

"Yeah, about that--"

"Out of the car sir, please."

"Bloody hell, " Spike grabbed the registration and swore to himself. He was too far out of the city for it to be LAPD. No, he had to get pulled over by a state trooper. Damn his luck. When it was good, he was golden, but when it was bad-- the shit just stuck to him like a second skin. He was sure Charlie could "fix" everything, but it could mean a short visit to the local station, or depot or whatever they called it. Getting a speeding ticket and making Angel pay for it was all good fun; having to be rescued from a jail cell or a charge of assaulting an officer would be the equivalent of handing Angel the ammunition and giving him a free shot. Not really part of the plan. He crawled out of the car and faced the officer.

"Look here, officer--"

"Sir, do you have any idea how fast-- SPIKE?!" The trooper stood there seemingly transfixed.
Hold on a second--

"Xander?!" Spike managed to close his mouth and wipe the gaping shock off his face but his brain continued to boggle on without him.

Yes, it was Xander Harris. Officer Harris, if the uniform was to be believed. Xander "Officer" Harris with two eyes and a terrific tan. A Xander Harris who had shaken off the extra pounds and bloaty look, and seemed muscle-packed into his uniform. "I thought you were in Africa? Wot's with the fancy dress?"

"I was... then we heard about the rebuilding starting in Sunnydale and I took the position to watch the Hellmouth. It may be closed, but there's still power there that needs guarding."

The boy, though not really a boy any more, seemed to be on automatic pilot, answering questions without any real thought to it. Any second now, the brain would kick in and the babble would start. Spike was sure of it.

"Spike?! You're alive?! I mean not alive, but-- Are you? Alive, I mean. Still a vampire? I get a lot of strangeness out here. Are you a ghost?" Harris had dropped his ticket book in all his agitation, and was now poking him in the chest.

"Enough of that!" Spike pushed his hand away, annoyed. With a roll of his eyes and a sigh for the centuries, Spike explained tersely, "Was a ghost. Got better. Still happily undead. Still have the soul. Thanks for asking. Working with Angel fighting the good fight and all that rot."

"And have you ever thought of working for Readers' Digest? Because nice condensation. Very nutshell like. A few more details would be nice." Spike could hear the clicks whirling from the boy's brain. "Angel? You and Angel? Isn't that like matter and anti-matter mixing? Andrew! Andrew knew, didn't he?! I'm thinking I owe geekboy a major ass-kicking over this."

"Threatened the little ponce with unspeakable torment if he let it slip before I was ready," Spike protested. He wasn't sure why. He truly despised Andrew, the prance-y little git. Damn soul! It made him feel responsible about it. About everything.

"Unspeakable huh? More likely you asked him not to say anything, and because of his giant-o man-crush on you, he folded quicker than my old sofa bed." Xander was grinning, like he knew something. Righteous prick. "So, you and Deadboy. How's that working out for you?"

"Don't really want to talk about it now, do I?" Spike growled. He wasn't about to try and explain his resurrection and the bizarre tangle that his life was now. Not to Harris.

"Ooookay, let's try a simpler topic then. What are you doing out here?" Spike could still hear the tinge of laughter in the boy's voice. He was leaning over to pick up the dropped ticket book. Spike only just resisted the need to sucker-punch the bastard. Oh, if only he could risk it. But he was sure the first thing the boy would do when he regained consciousness was squeal: "Yeah Buff- Spike's back! He's back among the unliving and he hit me when I wasn't looking. For no reason! I'm thinking that whole "saving the world thing" was just a fluke."

"Fine. Heard about the big rebuild and wanted to take a look around. Old stomping grounds and all that. Maybe see if there were any vamps or the odd demon to stomp. For old time's sake." Spike nodded to himself. It was a nice harmless answer. It was also the truth. They'd had their exchange of pleasantries, and now he should just get in his purloined car and go. But he just had to know. "What's with the eye? Where'd you get it?"

"Witch doctor in Africa. A gift from a grateful admirer."

"I see."

"And now so do I."

"Right. Well, I'd say it was nice catching up, but I'd be lying. So, I'll just be on my merry way then." Spike reached for the car door handle.

"Hold it right there, Speed Racer. We're not done here yet. Not by a long shot. Let's see the license and registration."

"Oh for-- You're not serious, are you?" Harris was just standing there, smile on his face, and his hand out, waiting for Spike to produce his papers. "Give a bloke a uniform and he thinks he's God's gift now, does he?"

"You were doing ninety in a forty zone. The license plate light is out. I'm not even sure this car-- Viper, isn't it? --is street legal. Let's see the paperwork, Spike. Now."

The smile was gone and Spike had this sinking feeling in his gut. The boy could muck this up right and proper if he had a mind to. Harris could impound the car and that would leave Spike in need of rescue. He slapped the registration into Harris' hand, trying not to growl.

"Well look at this... This isn't your name on the registration."

"It's a company car."

"Really. Then why isn't it registered to the company? Instead of being registered to one 'Angel'? And where's the driver's license, Spike?"

Spike mumbled, trying to gather his wits. This was going tits up faster than a handbasket to hell. He needed a plan. One where he'd get out of this without having to resort to violence. Not that he really wanted to avoid it. No, it was the emotional consequences afterwards he didn't want to face. Buffy would know he was alive and she'd be pissed off in more ways than he wanted to contemplate.

"I'm sorry. What was that? Please to repeat for those without demonically enhanced hearing?" Were they suddenly in a Chinese film? What was with the sing-song-ey cadence? Oh, he wasn't?! Oh he was! Little fucker was mocking him!

"I don't have one! I borrowed the car from Peaches and I don't have a license. Never did. Never will! You fucking berk!" Well, so much for a plan.

"Didn't think so." Harris was smiling again and chuckling softly.

"Why the fuck are you smiling?" Spike was starting to smile against his will. Okay, maybe it was a tad funny.

"It just hasn't been the same without you around, Spike." Harris made a move to sling a comradely arm around Spike's shoulder or that's what it had looked like. It was only when he was already handcuffed and being pushed against the car that Spike recognized it for a feint. Who knew the ex-bricklayer had it in him?

"Let me--"

"I would suggest you exercise your right to be silent." Something sharp was digging into his back. Right above his heart. He didn't need to see it to know it was a stake. "We're gonna go right over there to my car. And you're not gonna give me any trouble now, are you? Nod, please."

Spike nodded. He was unceremoniously marched over to the patroller and dumped onto the hood. Before he could get his stance, the boy kicked his legs wide, allowing him to stand but leaving him precariously balanced. Oh this was getting better and better.

"Let's see. We have driving without a license, speeding, broken light, and automotive theft. Did I leave anything out?"

"I didn't steal it! I just borrowed it. It's Angel's car. Even a tenth-grade loser like you should know the difference!"

"What a happy place you live in. Unfortunately, in this world? Borrowing is another word for grand theft auto."

"The bloody cheek! As soon as I get out of these bracelets--"

"Yeah? Go for it." As soon as the stake was removed from his back, Spike didn't waste any time. He pulled on the cuffs. He would shatter the them in seconds, then he was going to kick the shit out of Harris. Any second now.

Any.

Second.

Now!

Dammit, why weren't they breaking? He was working up a sweat now, using his full strength. He shifted his legs under him and started to stand and turn, only to be forced back down onto the car hood. His legs were kicked wide again and that stake pressed at his back.

"Nice huh? Willow made 'em for me. Well, not the cuffs, but she 'chanted up several pairs of them for me. They'd probably hold a hellgod. So, vampire? Not so worried about breakage."

"Just lovely. Now what are you gonna do, big man?" Spike spat venomously. "Take me to the hoosegow? Make me stand trial? What do you think Buffy and Angel are gonna to say about throwing me in the clink?"

"Well, I'm thinking Buff's not gonna have much to say at all, since she doesn't know you're alive. And Deadboy? I see a big shiny medal and a large sincere reward in my near future for getting his car back. See, I don't remember him being real big on sharing his toys."

Spike groaned to himself. If that wasn't a concise summation of the situation, he'd eat his duster. It didn't help that Harris seemed to be enjoying this. Really enjoying this.

"But who said anything about jail? Reason I took this job was because the whole demon thing doesn't really travel well into the courts. I don't take the demonic or undead to jail, Spike." Harris was chuckling again. A strange and off-putting noise. Spike thought about being nervous. "No, Spikey. I'm the judge, the jury, and if needs be-- the executioner."

"You won't dust me. You don't have the stones," Spike sneered. He needed to get out of this. Now.

"Really?" The point pressed hard through his shirt into his skin, breaking the skin.

"Right. Maybe you do. But for speeding and "borrowing" a car? Not very white hat of you," Spike stalled. Had Harris gone loony?

"Who said anything about dusting you? No, we're just gonna work out your fine right here. Then I'll call Deadboy about his car." Harris shifted behind him, taking the pressure off the stake at his back. "You're just gonna be a good little vamp, not give me any trouble, and everything will work out. No dust busting necessary. Right?"

"Oi! Who you calling little?" The point pressed in again. "Right. No trouble. Cooperating."

"Knew you had it in you." Harris started patting him down one-handed. Through his hair. Down his armpits and sides. Across his chest. Hold on.

"What the hell?!" Spike squeaked when large fingers found a nipple and pinched it through the fabric of his shirt, continuing to roll it between broad fingers. Harris didn't say anything, just shifted his hand to the other side and repeated the treatment. "Hey! Enough of that now!"

"Why, Spike? I'm thinking you have something to hide." The frisk continued with Harris pawing at his bum, pressing and pinching, as if he was a product in some bizarre freshness test. "Nice to see you haven't let yourself go, Spike."

"Been fantasizing about getting your hands on my arse for long, Harris?"

"You have no idea." Harris' hand slid between his legs, covering his crotch, squeezing and rubbing gently.

"No, I don't think I did," Spike muttered. And shouldn't he find this a little more disturbing than he did? He had a stake at his back and a hand very thoroughly feeling him up. Xander Harris' hand, and damn him if it didn't feel good. He tried to still the tremble that rose through his body.

"What's this?" A warm puff of breath whispered in his ear, as a firm press of fingers fondled his groin. "I think I've found something. What'cha got here, Blondie?"

"If you don't know-- Ooooooooh," Spike groaned, as the hand began to energetically stroke him through his jeans. At this exact moment, he didn't give a shit if the boy wanted to call Angel, Buffy, or the LA Tribune, just as long as he didn't stop.

"Got a weapon in there, do yah? I'm gonna have to do a more thorough search."

The hand stroking him stopped just long enough to get his jeans open and his cock out. Oh, and didn't skin on skin feel like genius? Harris' hand was so warm and so sure in its movement. The rough calluses catching on his foreskin every so often, like sparks. Spike had to bite his lip to keep from steadily moaning. It was a bit embarrassing that the pup could get him primed so fast. The hand moved from Spike's cock to cup his balls, or rather it tried to. His pants were a little too tight for the boy to get that huge hand in.

"Well, that's not very convenient."

Hands shifted: One wrapped around his cock, and the other, which had been holding the stake, was now doing something else. Spike was craning his neck to see what was going on when he heard a click. He only caught a glimpse before he was pushed back down, but he had seen it. The boy had the mother of all switchblades in his hand now.

"Now Spike, that's not cooperating, is it?" Before he could even think to utter a protest, Spike felt the edge of the blade slip inside the waistband at the back of his jeans. The hand on his cock gripped him firmly. "Now, you might want to stay really still and think good thoughts. I mean, I know vampire healing and all, but I don't think it'll grow anything back if I slip and have an oopsie."

Have an oopsie? Spike went still as only the dead can: No breath, no movement, nothing. Only the ticking of his brain, at the thoughts of losing his favorite body parts. Well, that and the twitching of his cock. And for the complete unlife of him, Spike couldn't understand why... Especially after almost losing his arms to that loon of a slayer. Deftly, the seam holding his jeans together at the crotch was cut from back to front, peeled from his body and left hanging in shreds over his still denim-encased thighs. Not even a nick and, somewhere deep in his demon, Spike was disappointed at that.

"Much better."

There was another click and the knife disappeared to wherever it had come from. Spike allowed himself one shaky breath, and a quick prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening that his bits were still attached.

"You're a right fruitcake, aren't you?" Spike muttered, more to himself than to Harris. If Drusilla had taught him anything, it was "nutty is as nutty does" and it wasn't necessarily a bad ride. He just had to live through it. A particularly rough twist and pull on his cock made Spike grunt and moan at the same time. And if the boy kept doing him like this, well, maybe the soul wouldn't mind if he turned the little sod. Damn, yes, it would. Damn.

"Spike? Are you even paying attention? I don't think you are." Damn his soul! He'd never gotten all philosophical while getting a hand job before, that just wasn't fair. Wasn't he allowed to enjoy anything anymore?!

"Oi!" A sharp slap to a bare cheek definitely got his attention, and then another. The boy had put on leather gloves, and didn't that just sting like a bitch. "'M paying attention! I am!"

"Nope, not buying it." Blows began to rain down on his ass, each one harder than the last, until he couldn't distinguish where he'd been hit and where the blow actually landed. He was lost in a warm hazy burn of pain, pain that numbed to pleasure, that chased away thought and left only feeling.

Faintly, he heard Harris start to mutter in cadence with the strikes. "That's for stealing the car... for driving without a license... for not paying attention to me... for never-- NEVER picking up your dirty towels!"

"Huh?" That last one really didn't make sense. Spike felt something wet and oily rubbed against his hole. Lube? Where the hell was he getting all this crap from? "What? You steal Batman's utility belt or something?"

"You'd rather I do this dry?" Something blunt and hard began to ease into him. Spike winced at the sweet burn and tried to relax. It took a while for his body to accept the intruder, to accept the intrusion. But his body would accept it because, while it may have been a while, he'd never forgotten the pleasure of being fucked and ridden until he was nothing but a mass of screaming nerve endings, begging to come. Already, his body was allowing the cold hardness to slip deeper-- Hold on. Cold?

"What the hell is that?!" Spike clenched his muscles tightly around the intruder. It didn't flex. It wasn't flesh. "What--"

"Might not want to do that, Spikey." Harris was laughing again. That right bloody bastard! "Vamp strength being what it is and all-- You might break it. And yeah, it's not your heart, but do you really want to explain how you got staked up the ass?"

"Stake? Are you completely off your--" A rough shove took the thing deeper into him, stealing the breath Spike was using to speak.

"No, not a stake. My nightstick, actually. But a piece of wood is a piece of wood. And if you break it-- a stake." The billy club began to slide slowly in and out of him. Spike did his best to relax, stay calm, and offer no resistance. "Good. I really didn't want to explain to my Captain why I needed a new club."

Flashes of red and white from the patrol car cast eerie silent shadows over the hood of the car Spike was braced against. Even with the siren off, any half-blind half-wit would be able to zero in on those lights. All he needed was an audience. This had to be the epitome of degradation. Handcuffed and pushed over a mortal's car, being fucked with a piece of wood. The angle shifted and Spike couldn't help his body's jerk. He was too busy trying to see
through the fireworks going off in his brain.

"Knew you'd be like this. Always knew. With all that strutting Big Badness. All that leather, smoke, and attitude. Begging for someone to put you in your place. You're a bitch, Spike. A fine ass bitch, but a still a bitch. Always were."

"Nnnnnngh!" It was kinda difficult to argue with the boy, while he was stroking Spike's cock so fine and hitting his sweetspot so refreshingly often. A very small part of his brain was trying to tell him that he was being humiliated, defiled by a blighter he wouldn't bite even if he was starving, and that was before the soul. But it got shut up in a small closet by the rest of his brain, or maybe that was his dick, since it definitely seemed to be in charge.
Spike needed to come and, dammit, he wanted to come! Right this second he'd settle for coming hard, hard enough to ruin Harris's paint job.

"Oh no you don't!" The lovely stroking stopped, and a vise like pressure pinched at the base of his cock. NO! Not fair! That wasn't fair! He was so close! Spike had felt that fiery rise, that sweet push from his balls and Harris was denying him!

"Wanna come, Spike?" Of all the stupid questions! He was vibrating with the need of it. The nightstick was removed, and he heard the dull clatter as it hit the pavement. Hollowed out, he ached with the emptiness. Was this his fine? His punishment?

"You wanna come Spike-- You have to beg me for it. Beg me to fuck you. Beg to come." A light teasing slap at his full and aching balls tortured a moan and a shiver out of Spike. "Come on. Beg me, bitch."

So easily confused with vanity, pride was a funny thing. It could break the backs of gods or exalt a wretch to sainthood. Too much was evil and too little self-destructive. That's wherein the lure of submission lay. Submitting, handing off the burden of pride to someone else, was absolution. Ever since he'd gotten the soul, Spike had battled an insane path through guilt and pride, trying to balance the two. He was so tired. If not for the fear of hell,
he would have laid down this yoke so long ago. Certainly, he would never have made it out of Africa. He wanted the release. Wanted the freedom. But his soul and damnable pride wouldn't allow the submission. It was a cold thing, pride.

The pain in his balls flared at another slap, and Spike didn't even try to hold back the moan of pleasure. The demon loved the pain and admired the cruelty of the mortal as a sharp and beautiful thing.

"What's it gonna be, Spike?" The words were soft, but the tug at his balls was harsh. The sound of a zipper being lowered seemed to trumpet through the night air. He could feel the heat of Harris's cock, so near and yet so far away. "Beg for it."

"Please, " Spike muttered into the hood. Apparently his dick had no pride, and didn't give a high holy shit what his soul demanded. If nothing else, his dick had a clear objective. Well, good for it. With any luck at all, at least he'd get off. "Please."

"Please what, Spike?" The voice was still soft, but Harris' breathing had gone jagged. A small bone for Spike's pride, if any still existed. "You're a bitch, my bitch. And please what?"

"I'm your bitch and fuck me. Please, fuck me! Fuck your bitch!" A mendicant whore in search of benediction, but there it was, the freedom to just feel. To feel the large warm hands, bereft of gloves, wander his skin, petting and caressing him. To feel his taunt and trembling muscles, skidding from pain into pleasure. To feel the everything in his everywhere. Freedom.

Harris cock burned away the emptiness inside him with the first searing plunge. Not even burning to dust saving the world had been as scorching as this. Every sinew, bone, and nerve in his body ached with it. Ached for it. A fire inside his belly, inside his brain, howling to get out.

Every bone snapping thrust both punished and rewarded Spike. It was heaven and hell balanced on a sharp shining razor blade: A split-second glimpse of an immortal paradise doomed to mortality by the fall, and fall he did. He fell screaming, cut to ribbons with the pleasure, into the abyss. Paroxysmal orgasmic rapture taking him beyond everything known into the starless black.

*********************************************

"Bloody hell," Spike groaned, as consciousness slowly dripped back into his brain. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the Viper. Idly, he noticed that his jeans had been swapped out for a baggy pair of fleecy sweat pants. Nice and warm, those. He smiled, in boneless contentment, at the man in the driver's seat. The man who was holding him so gently in his arms.

"Back among the unliving are we?" Xander was smiling softly at him. The boy was still wearing the officer getup, but had taken off the belt and undone the shirt buttons some. "So?"

"Hmmmmmmm?" Spike was still not quite back from his trip to orgasm la-la land. Languidly, he played with the buttons on Xander's shirt, flicking a few more open.

"Spike? You okay in there? Tell me I didn't fuck what was left of your brains out?" Xander's voice was fringed with laughter, as he dropped a kiss unto Spike's lips.

"Can't you savor the afterglow, you big girl?" Spike complained, but there was no malice in his voice. And he was pretty sure there was no power on this earth that could wipe the smile off his face.

"Oh, I'm savoring. I'm totally savoring-guy, right here." But there seemed to be a seriousness hiding behind the laughter in the boy's eyes. "I just wanted to make sure you were-- Uhm, okay?"

Spike could hear the unspoken questions, so loud in the silence: "Was it okay? Did I do okay?"

"You were ruddy brilliant. Beyond everything I asked for, really." Sometimes his boy was still so insecure about sex. Which was beyond ironic, considering in all his years, no one had ever made Spike feel like this. Not Angelus, not Drusilla, not even Buffy. This was love. Real love.

"Yeah? Really? I thought maybe I pushed it with the knife. That you were gonna use your safe word--"

"Didn't even think about it, pet. 'S the truth. Trust you." He could feel Xander completely relax against him.

"Cool. So, uhm... My turn next, right?"

"Whatever you want, luv." Hell, right this second, the boy could get him to do the house-keeping for at least a week in nothing but a pair of heels and a set of pearls.

"Naughty schoolboy and stern headmaster? And you'll wear the tweed?"

Laughing, Spike promised, "I'll stick an apple in your mouth and fuck you over a desk in front of an entire class."

"Classroom, yes. Class in it, no."

"We'll see. I'll make an exhibitionist out of you yet, pet."

Spike smiled when Xander chose neither to confirm nor deny anything and started the car instead. "We need to get going, if we're gonna make it back to LA before sunrise."

"What about the patrol car? And where the hell did you get that, by the way? You didn't nick it, did you?" The uniform, Spike could understand, it was LA after all. The land of make believe. But a real patrol car?

"Don't worry about it. A tow truck is gonna pick it up in a couple hours."

"Xander?" Spike growled.

"Oh, okay! Gunn helped me arrange it. I put Wolfram & Hart's owning the police to some personal use. And no, Gunn doesn't know the details. It was a 'don't ask don't tell' kinda deal." "Well, all right then," Spike grinned. His boy was definitely a bit of all right. A real patrol car. He chuckled to himself.

"I'm so happy you approve." Spike didn't even need to look. He could hear Xander rolling his eyes. They both shifted a touch, so that Xander could put his seatbelt on. The car was put into gear, and his boy pulled on to the still empty highway.

They drove toward LA in companionable silence. It really had been a brilliant game: The Criminal and The Bad Cop. Mulling over the elements of the scene in his mind, Spike remembered the one niggling off moment, where they had both seemed jarred out of their agreed personas.

"Xander? Dirty towels?"

"Uh, I was in the moment?"

"How are dirty towels being in the moment?" Spike scowled at his lover.

"Well, the spanking was about punishing you for your crimes. And, well, Spike, you've never picked up a dirty towel since I've known you. You just drop them wherever. How many times have I asked you to pick them up? It pisses me off."

Spike blinked a couple of times trying to process this. Of all his bloody crimes against humanity, this is what his boy lets slip in their scene? Spike gave up to the laughter, "Bloody priceless you are. Won't forget now, will I?"

Xander snorted at him, but it was followed by a smile that lit Spike up from the inside. Priceless indeed.

"Hey Spike? How tired are you?"

"Pretty shagged out, luv. Did me right and proper you did... Why?" Spike looked over at his lover. Xander had gotten that sly sneaky look on his face, that Spike loved so well. His boy was thinking naughty thoughts.

"Too tired to do me in the backseat and ruin this car forever for Deadboy?" Xander waggled his eyebrows and leered at him.

"I'll be dust before I'm that tired, luv." Spike leered right back at him. Naughty thoughts. Naughty boy. Never giving him up.

"Aww, Spike. You're the bestest boyfriend ever!"

The End        back to:  Spander fiction    Recommended fiction  Reading Room