Xander scuffed his already dirty sneakers in the loose dirt outside Spike's crypt. What the hell was he doing here?

Escaping Anya's diabolical wedding plans. If he had to hear one more thing about DJs or caterers or dresses or . . . And getting married had seemed like such a good idea.

Xander exhaled heavily. No time like the present. Loudly, he knocked on the door. He'd learned his lesson about barging in on Spike. Wouldn't want to interrupt any "exercising." He was already scarred for life from the last time.

Slowly, the door opened a few inches, creaking on its hinges. Spike's eye, squinty with suspicion and a trace of fear, appeared in the crack.

"Oh, it's just you, Harris." Spike swung the door fully open, sardonic leer settling into place. "Thought it might be someone important. Or someone come to beat the living hell out of me."

Xander shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint you. I just thought . . ."

Spike's left eyebrow arched quizzically. "Wanna come in?" He moved out of the doorway and motioned vaguely towards a rather decrepit-looking icebox. "I've got beer in the fridge."

Gingerly, Xander stepped over the threshold of the crypt. "Wow. And here I thought you'd just have O-Neg. You're getting quite domestic, Spike."

Spike snorted and flipped him the bird by way of response.

Xander's eyes drifted over the suspiciously-nice second-hand couch, the beat-up old chair, and the flickering Bela Lugosi on the black-and-white television. Considering how it looked the other day, it would appear that the vamp had done some housekeeping since the last time he'd visited. Spike. Housekeeping. Xander stifled a giggle as an image of Spike with an apron and pink feather duster flashed before his eyes. "Looks like you've repaired some of the damage around here."

"Yeeaaahh . . ." Spike lingered over the word, evaluating the boy. How much had the whelp figured out?

"So, where's the beer, Bleached One?"

"Bit demanding, aren't you, Harris?" Spike couldn't help but smile as he opened the fridge and tossed Xander a beer. He'd never admit it, but he'd grown to like the boy over the summer. But the whole not-telling-the-evil-undead-vampire-about-our-resurrection-plans thing had kind of put a strain on their relationship. Still, it was nice to have someone come 'round to visit. God knows, he hadn't seen Buffy or any of the other Scoobies since Captain Cardboard had come to town. Riley had always had a knack for bollocksing things up.

Both men took a deep swing of their beverage to the accompaniment of chirping crickets.

"Um, Spike. I have something here for you." Xander pulled a crumpled envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. "We, um, couldn't send it, 'cause, um, well, you don't have an address that any postal worker in his right mind would deliver to, so I thought I'd just, um, give it to you in person."

Spike examined the slightly bent ivory rectangle in his hand. "What is it then? It's not going to hurt me, is it?"

"No." Xander shook his head and took a hearty gulp of beer. Almost inaudibly he whispered, "Might hurt me, though."

Violently, Spike ripped open the envelope. Inside was an invitation. An invitation to the whelp's wedding. "Well, Harris." Spike paused and considered the neat cursive script, the pale pink roses that decorated the card. Slowly, his finger traced the words. "Isn't this special? And I get to bring a date, too." Nonchalantly, he tossed the invite on the coffee table and sank back on the couch, gesturing for Xander to sit down. "I'm touched." His mouth twisted into his trademark leer, but his eyes were soft.

Xander flopped into the ratty green chair and considered the vampire. "So, what do you have going on tonight?" He pointed his Guinness towards Mr. Lugosi, who, Xander noted, was really looking worse for the wear. "Watching Plan 9 from Outer Space again? Wasn't once enough?"

"Hey!" Spike replied indignantly. "Ed Wood was a genius. Just misunderstood, that's all."

"Kinda like you, huh?" Xander laughed.

Spike chuckled. "Yeah, kinda like me."

Once again, the crickets chirped. Xander cleared his throat. "So, Spike? Ever participated in the fine human ritual of throwing a big heavy ball down a waxed lane and hoping it doesn't land in the gutter?"

"Huh?"

"Bowling, Spike. Ten pins? Big balls?"

"Well, I've got the big . . ."

Xander raised his hands in supplication. "Too much information, Spike. Already saw more than I ever needed to the other day." He took another sip of his beer. "So, you up for it?"

Spike smirked. "You really don't want to go home, do you, Harris?"

"Spike," Xander looked pleadingly at the vampire, "don't make me go back there. She's talking about blood larva and the groom's ritual of self-flagellation again."

Spike shrugged. "What's wrong with that?"

Xander shot him a withering look.

"Right, then. Bowling it is."

***

The Sunny Bowl. Cheery name, right?

Much like Sunnydale itself, the seemingly cheerful name of the Sunny Bowl belied the torment, the depravity, nay, the pure evil that resided behind the rather innocuous exterior. For behind the grimy glass doors, it was . . .

Karaoke night.

Yes, kiddies. Karaoke night at the bowling alley. Definitely not a place for a self-respecting soulless vampire to be hanging out with his human 'friend.' He'd never be able to show his face in Willie's again.

Spike shuddered, as a painfully thin woman with lank blonde hair and a range of a minor second attempted to channel Tina Turner. Awkwardly she swayed while a blue light, which, Spike absently noted, did nothing for her colouring, washed over her face. "Proud Mary keep on burning! Roll-ING, roll-ING," she howled, pointing almost accusatorily at the audience—all two of them—while attempting a heretofore unknown version of the Watusi, "ON THE RI-VAH!"

"See ya, Harris. I've had enough." Spike, looking paler than usual, bolted for the exit.

He was stopped by Xander's fingers digging desperately into his flesh. "Please, Spike," Xander hissed. "Blood larva. Dresses. Martha Stewart, for God's sakes." His eyes filled with panic. "Don't make me go back there."

Spike sighed and lit a cigarette. "If this ever gets out . . ."

"No one will know," Xander solemnly promised. "I swear."

***

"So . . . " The ash fell heavily onto the glass counter as the man, Vern, if one were to believe the embroidered scrawl above his slightly ripped left pocket, shifted the burning cigarette to the other side of his mouth. "What's your size?"

"What the f—" Spike's eyes opened wide in horror as the man gestured to the rows of brightly coloured shoes that lined the shelves behind him.

"I said, what is your size, sir," Vern finally removed the cigarette from his mouth, tapping it impatiently on the counter. "I ain't got all night here to deal with you," he looked Xander and Spike up and down with derision, "fine gentlemen."

"He's a ten," Xander piped up, guessing at Spike's shoe size. "And I'll have a pair of elevens."

The man practically threw the shoes at them. "Four dollars."

Spike's jaw dropped as he viewed the full splendour of the shoes up close. "Harris, if you think I'm gonna put those shoes on, you can . . ."

Xander cut off the obscenity he knew was coming. "Spike! Let's go." Swiftly, Xander grabbed the shoes, tossed the money towards the odiferous Vern, and shepherded the highly irritated vampire away from the counter. "Here, take them."

"I'll look like bloody Bozo, Harris. If this ever gets out . . ."

"Again, no one will know, Spike. I swear."

***

"I need another beer." Spike threw the bowling ball, barely looking at where it was headed.

"Hey, Spike, I'll have one too. Thanks for asking." Xander watched as the ball veered into the gutter.

"And Spike," Xander smirked, "you're a sucky bowler."

"Sod off, Harris."

"Michelob draft, Spike."

Again, Spike gave a wordless, yet expressive reply—a two-fingered salute.

As he strode towards the bar, palming the wallet he'd just nicked from Xander, a slow smile spread across his face.

Spike was having fun.

Yeah, the singing was bad (currently on deck was a shrieking white man, trying to be James Brown-not pretty). The beer was horrible-American piss-water crap. The company? Well, it was Harris, after all. And the whelp was cleaning his clock, bowling-wise. And the shoes? Well, they were just wrong. Spike shuddered as he looked down at his blue-and-red clad feet. They were gonna revoke his Big Bad card for this. As if killing his own kind and falling for the Slayer weren't enough to make him completely pathetic.

But he was having fun.

Jauntily, he withdrew a ten from Xander's wallet. "Patsy? It is Patsy, innit?" He turned on his best smile as the rather well-endowed woman with white-blonde hair (a colour definitely not found in nature—Spike should know) looked up. "Two beers, pet."

With expert grace, she filled the mugs, a perfect foamy white crest adorning the glasses.

"You sure give good head," Spike leered.

"Bite me."

Spike waggled his eyebrows. "Really? You mean it?"

Patsy rolled her eyes. "Smart ass. Want anything else?"

"Yeah." Spike leaned suggestively over the counter. "How 'bout some of those curly fries? I'm feeling a bit peckish all of a sudden."

***

Xander giggled a bit hysterically, the laugh of a condemned man. "And then this chick, Halfrek, came to town. All veiny and vengeance demony. And all I could think was, 'Oh my God. Anya used to look like that. And she used to make men's parts fall off and give guys diseases, and . . ."

Spike shook his head. "Man, Harris. You're screwed." Dramatically, he picked up his bowling ball. Thrusting it out before him, he considered it, his voice rising with overwrought passion. "Alas, poor Harris! I knew him! A great guy, kinda funny in a brain-dead sorta way. Now look at the poor sod." Spike lowered the ball, his eyes full of mock sympathy. "That's what he got for marrying a demon."

"Ex-demon, Spike. And I'm gonna turn into a bowling ball? I don't get it."

Spike sighed. "Yanks. Got absolutely no culture. If Giles were here, he woulda got it." He tossed 'poor Harris' down the lane with vigour, watching as it bounced twice, knocking one pin down. "Hey! I knocked one over." Spike clapped Xander on the back. "Score one for me, mate."

"Smile, boys!" Dawn snapped a picture of the astonished pair.

"Niblet?!? What are you . . . Hey! You shouldn't be out this late. It's a school night, innit? Does your sister—does Buffy know?"

Dawn sighed the sigh of a contemptuous, rebellious teenager. "Gosh, Spike, overprotective much?" She gestured towards the next lane. "Janice is having her birthday party. We came here for some post-pizza bowl-age." Snickering, she looked down at Spike's fine choice of footwear. "Nice shoes, Big Bad."

Spike sputtered slightly, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to think of a comeback.

"Hey, Dawn?" Xander called out as Dawn started towards her friends.

"Yeah?"

Xander winked. "Can I have a copy of that picture?"

Dawn laughed. "Wanna save this as proof? Proof that Spike, the scourge of however many continents, wore those cute little bowling shoes?"

If Spike were capable of blushing, he would have been redder than one of those bloody copper's sirens. His face felt hot. They were making fun of him. They were . . .

They were teasing him. Like friends teased other friends.

Friends.

"Hey, Niblet?"

"Yeah?"

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