On Location in Egypt, part five
Disclaimers, etc. in part one.
Thanks as always to this story's godmother, tesla321, for read-throughs, hand-holding, encouragment, enthusiasm, and porntastic suggestions. Enormous thanks to kickass beta readers lalejandra, herselfnyc and winterlive.
If you don't remember what the heck is going on, I can't say I blame you. Previous parts are here, here, here and here.
Previously: Everyone is a porn star. Xander, aka Alexander Steele, has avoided his old costar Spike ever since their breakup two years ago. A porn emergency requires Xander to swallow his pride, asking Spike to bail out Hell of a Mouth Productions. Spike agrees but refuses to have sex with Xander himself. That stings. When HMP sneakily keeps throwing them together despite his protests, Xander refuses to film with men at all. In retaliation, CEO Cordelia starts casting him exclusively with rival company Scourge Productions's biggest bitcas, making his life hell. Xander also discovers a schmaltzy montage editing pre-existing Spike and Xander footage together with current footage taken on the sly of the boys looking at each other. Xander is livid but powerless, as he had neglected to read the fine print on his contract.
Oh, and in a subplot, Xander's best friend and frequent porn costar Lindsey MacDonald--aka Lindsey Long--has a traumatic encounter with Darla, founder and CEO of Scourge and an old acquaintance from his lawyer days in LA. He also sleeps around a fair bit, and color-codes his overnight guest's toothbrushes for convenience.
Part five
The solid thwack of dart hitting wall--and the occasional subtly different twack of dart hitting dartboard--are sort of calming. Xander idly considers buying Dawn a new Disneyland poster to replace this one. Mickey is pretty much unrecognizable by now, what with all the holes poked through his head.
Of course, it's all Spike's fault, so Spike should really be the one to buy the poster. Not because Spike bought Dawn the poster in the first place, during that trip he and Xander took to Disneyland, when Xander ate too much cotton candy before going on the teacup ride and threw up afterwards but Spike rubbed his back and brought him a bottled water and held his hand and never, ever told anyone about it.
No, it's Spike's fault because all the Spike-related tension is what's forcing Xander to lock himself in the studio office to throw all the darts, and it's Spike-related tension that's making him miss.
Well, miss more often.
Xander works himself up into a fine snit of righteous indignation as he hurls dart after dart in the general direction of the board, then rips them out of the wall and throws them again. Stupid Spike, with his stupid inability to decide what the hell he wants to do with his stupid hair, and his stupid, unprofessional, inconsiderate no-fucking-Xander rule. Because really, what the fuck? What the fucking fuck is that all about? Like they can't be mature, responsible adult pornstars and have a little hot mansex with their exes? People do it all the time, you know. Especially in Sunnydale, which is like, soap-opera incestuous.
Hell, if Buffy can still be civil with Angel after that disaster--and Xander was never really sure what happened there, what with the storm and the factory burning down and the dead goldfish--Spike should be able to pry his ass off of his high horse and let Xander score a little touch.
For the movies.
Xander's not a bad guy, and he has it on very good, professional sex-worker authority that he's a good lay. He flosses, works out, exfoliates, and is always conscientious about using enough lube. So, what, they can't let bygones be bygones? If Xander can be man enough to call Spike up and ask him to do a movie with him because, okay, the entire HMP collective forced him to, then Spike should be able to set aside his complete assholeness and do Xander.
Not that that's what's really bothering Xander.
What's bothering him is... is HMP's complete disregard for Xander's feelings, his preferences, his... his artistic integrity, dammit.
He could very well be having a semi-lucrative career with Snyder Films, after all. Scourge has knocked on his door more than once, and Trick's Chicks still sends him a Christmas card every year.
Maybe it's time Cordelia heard that.
---
What it comes down to is, Xander only has one card to play, so he tosses it on the table. "I'll walk," he says. "Sue me."
Cordelia doesn't blink.
She stands up, pours herself a glass of water, waves the pitcher in Xander's direction in a wordless offer. He nods, and she pours him some, pressing the smooth, cool glass into his hand.
Then she picks up a remote control and flicks on the television set in her office's elegant entertainment center. The screen bursts into life on a close-up of Xander's face. There is no sound, just the mute picture, Xander looking intently at something just offscreen, his eyes darting to and away from whatever it is he's looking at, emotions zipping across his face. Cordelia freeze-frames on a particularly unflattering bit, right in the middle of an eye-blink, with his mouth twisted weirdly, like he's about to say something, or trying not to.
Xander squints. "So, what, you're trying to tell me I should listen when Tara tells me I need more concealer? 'Cause I'm sold; you can turn it off now."
Cordelia rolls her eyes, tosses aside the remote and perches on the desk. "Fine," she says. "Have it your way. Don't ask me why I bother; it's not like I'm running a lonely hearts club here."
Xander takes a moment to admire her legs as she crosses them neatly.
"The montage is going out to the distributors next week. End of story." He opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up her hand. "You lower sales by refusing to film with men, you deal with Anya's more creative ways of raising revenue. So if your inner moppet is sufficiently spanked now, what do you say we go back to business as usual? You drop your little all-straight movie campaign, we'll find you some more accomodating coworkers."
She leans back to root around in the neat pile of papers behind her, fishing out a folder and tossing it in Xander's lap.
"You're in Studio B tomorrow morning, and in Tara's new project next week. She wrote that one, so there's an actual script with character development and personal growth." She nails him with an acidic glare. "Do your best to fake that part."
Xander isn't the kind of guy to gloat about a petty little victory or anything. He goes with the flow, does his thing, lets the chips fall where they may.
Rushes to the gym to tell the gang Cordy finally let him off the hook.
---
The next afternoon finds Xander at the supermarket, filling his cart with the usual mix of virtuous grown-up food and the crap all the virtuous grown-up food and gym time lets him get away with eating. He's still up, almost jittery, feeling a little jig ready to spring up at any moment. He's peaceful, calm, blissful. Slept like a baby last night.
Well, like a baby who doesn't sleep all that well every second. A colicky baby.
Whatever colic is. Willow will know.
Anyway, the point is, Xander slept. Somewhat. Without the specter of Spike hovering over him, because he's finally had it out with The Man, and even though The Man is his ex-girlfriend, he won. So, sleep status aside, he's feeling refreshed. Renewed. Revitalized. Bring on Sheila, Sunday, Glory, hell, Darla herself, and he's good to go. He'll fuck 'em all, gladly, smile for the cameras, do 'em up in style, because Xander Harris is done with Spike for good, and if he never lays eyes on him again, it'll be too damn soon.
Which is fan-fucking-tastic all the way up until he bumps into Spike's cart in the produce aisle.
"Oi! Watch where you're-- Oh." Spike clutches his Romaine to his chest for a second, then drops it like it's on fire.
"Um, Spike." Okay, so it's not the strongest opening line ever. Xander goes for a save. "What, uh, what are you doing here?" Xander Harris, folks, prince of eloquence.
Spike looks down at his cart, then levels a pointed glance at the walls of food surrounding them.
Yeah, okay. Good point. "Well, it hasn't been lovely seeing you, Spike, so I'll just be on my way now. You have yourself a nice--" He catches a glimpse of the contents of Spike's cart. "Are those the good capers? And the fancy black olives from the deli section? And linguini, and sun-dried--you're making pasta puttanesca!"
"What if I am? It's a free country, innit?"
Xander narrows his eyes. "Yeah, well tell me one thing, Constitution Boy. You putting anchovies in that?"
Spike looks offended. "Like hell I am."
"I knew it! You're making our pasta!" That shameless hussy.
The shameless hussy in question shrugs. "Yeah, well. Dawn asked for it special for tomorrow night. She and some of the guys from the shoot--"
"You're making our pasta for other people? Without me?"
"Oi! We never said--"
"Some things are just understood, Spike! You'd know that if you weren't so... so you." And okay, Xander is not the bad guy here. He's not.
"Fine," Spike says, snatching up a nearby bunch of fresh basil. "I'll make pesto."
"Yeah, well... see that you do!"
"Oh, I will. Wouldn't make that pasta if it were the last pasta on earth. Don't know what I ever saw in it."
"Hey, that pasta sauce was moist and delicious, pal! It was hot and vivid and practically leapt off the plate, plus when you warmed it up and served it in those extra-wide pasta bowls it smelled fantastic and felt just like--"
"Yeah," Spike whispers, fingering his basil. He tosses it into his cart and juts out his chin. "Yeah, well, in retrospect, it was lousy. Craving something a little fresher. Rather have pesto any day of the week."
Oh, now he's gone too far. "You know what? You never deserved that pasta, anyway. I hope you and your pesto and everyone in the world who's coming over to your place to eat it has a spanking good time!"
"Oh, we will!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
It's only because Xander is a mature human being and the nice lady over by the squash is looking at them funny that he decides to leave it at that.
---
When Xander steps into the crowded dressing room at five a.m. to encounter most of the regular HMP players plus additional talent topless, pulling on teal Spandex hot pants and smearing blue glitter gel on each other, he doesn't even have to ask.
It's another Ethan Rayne production.
He slips out of his clothes and into what, sure, why not, he'll call his outfit. It's a big free-for-all with the glitter, so he joins in, slathering some on his chest. Willow asks him to do her back and he obliges, and if he didn't take advantage of that to sneak at least one little poke at the ticklish spot at the base of her spine, he'd not be human.
And if that sets off a small glitter gel skirmish, what with Willow's retaliatory strike going wide and catching Buffy between the ribs, Buffy's counterattack catching Faith off-guard and knocking her into a delighted Devon, well. That's just the price of art, right?
---
The entire studio is lit with blue gels, Xander notes, and heaven help them all, Ethan's hauled out the mirrored disco balls. A massive trampoline dominates one corner. "All right, everyone." Ethan claps his hands briskly. "We'll start off filming the trampoline work."
Everyone groans.
"Dude, trampolines suck," Devon mutters to Kendra.
"And you tink all de bouncing around is uncomfortable for you?" she snorts, glancing down at her considerable assets.
"Children, children! We are wasting valuable time here. I am an artist. I have a vision." Ethan waves his hand, taking in the retro set and the glittering throng of frowning, scantily clad porn stars. "I do not expect you to understand my vision. I merely expect you to put on your Spandex and get on the damned trampoline. Oz, the music, please!"
Funky seventies-style glam rock starts pumping as the grumbling dies down.
"Excellent. Now cue the bubble machines and get everyone on the trampoline now. Action!"
---
Glitter gel doesn't taste that bad, actually. At least, not on Kendra it doesn't. Or Devon. Or Faith, Buffy, or Forrest. It's hell to get out of your hair, though.
Or maybe that's just the lube.
Xander's still roughly toweling stray sparkles out of his hair when he stops by Lindsey's place on the way to the Bronze. Lindsey's truck sits in the driveway alongside a sleek silver BMW Xander doesn't recognize.
Just as he raises his hand to knock on the front door it opens, and Xander almost falls into Lauren Bacall's lap. He catches himself on the doorway, blinking.
"Alexander LaVelle Harris," Bacall smiles, holding out a hand for Xander to shake. "Lilah Morgan. Delighted to make your aquaintance. I'm a big fan of your work."
"Oh, you like my movies?"
"That, too," she smirks, stepping off the porch. Beep of her keys, slam of her car door, smooth rumble of the BMW's engine and she's gone.
Huh.
---
TBC
Thanks as always to this story's godmother, tesla321, for read-throughs, hand-holding, encouragment, enthusiasm, and porntastic suggestions. Enormous thanks to kickass beta readers lalejandra, herselfnyc and winterlive.
If you don't remember what the heck is going on, I can't say I blame you. Previous parts are here, here, here and here.
Previously: Everyone is a porn star. Xander, aka Alexander Steele, has avoided his old costar Spike ever since their breakup two years ago. A porn emergency requires Xander to swallow his pride, asking Spike to bail out Hell of a Mouth Productions. Spike agrees but refuses to have sex with Xander himself. That stings. When HMP sneakily keeps throwing them together despite his protests, Xander refuses to film with men at all. In retaliation, CEO Cordelia starts casting him exclusively with rival company Scourge Productions's biggest bitcas, making his life hell. Xander also discovers a schmaltzy montage editing pre-existing Spike and Xander footage together with current footage taken on the sly of the boys looking at each other. Xander is livid but powerless, as he had neglected to read the fine print on his contract.
Oh, and in a subplot, Xander's best friend and frequent porn costar Lindsey MacDonald--aka Lindsey Long--has a traumatic encounter with Darla, founder and CEO of Scourge and an old acquaintance from his lawyer days in LA. He also sleeps around a fair bit, and color-codes his overnight guest's toothbrushes for convenience.
Part five
The solid thwack of dart hitting wall--and the occasional subtly different twack of dart hitting dartboard--are sort of calming. Xander idly considers buying Dawn a new Disneyland poster to replace this one. Mickey is pretty much unrecognizable by now, what with all the holes poked through his head.
Of course, it's all Spike's fault, so Spike should really be the one to buy the poster. Not because Spike bought Dawn the poster in the first place, during that trip he and Xander took to Disneyland, when Xander ate too much cotton candy before going on the teacup ride and threw up afterwards but Spike rubbed his back and brought him a bottled water and held his hand and never, ever told anyone about it.
No, it's Spike's fault because all the Spike-related tension is what's forcing Xander to lock himself in the studio office to throw all the darts, and it's Spike-related tension that's making him miss.
Well, miss more often.
Xander works himself up into a fine snit of righteous indignation as he hurls dart after dart in the general direction of the board, then rips them out of the wall and throws them again. Stupid Spike, with his stupid inability to decide what the hell he wants to do with his stupid hair, and his stupid, unprofessional, inconsiderate no-fucking-Xander rule. Because really, what the fuck? What the fucking fuck is that all about? Like they can't be mature, responsible adult pornstars and have a little hot mansex with their exes? People do it all the time, you know. Especially in Sunnydale, which is like, soap-opera incestuous.
Hell, if Buffy can still be civil with Angel after that disaster--and Xander was never really sure what happened there, what with the storm and the factory burning down and the dead goldfish--Spike should be able to pry his ass off of his high horse and let Xander score a little touch.
For the movies.
Xander's not a bad guy, and he has it on very good, professional sex-worker authority that he's a good lay. He flosses, works out, exfoliates, and is always conscientious about using enough lube. So, what, they can't let bygones be bygones? If Xander can be man enough to call Spike up and ask him to do a movie with him because, okay, the entire HMP collective forced him to, then Spike should be able to set aside his complete assholeness and do Xander.
Not that that's what's really bothering Xander.
What's bothering him is... is HMP's complete disregard for Xander's feelings, his preferences, his... his artistic integrity, dammit.
He could very well be having a semi-lucrative career with Snyder Films, after all. Scourge has knocked on his door more than once, and Trick's Chicks still sends him a Christmas card every year.
Maybe it's time Cordelia heard that.
---
What it comes down to is, Xander only has one card to play, so he tosses it on the table. "I'll walk," he says. "Sue me."
Cordelia doesn't blink.
She stands up, pours herself a glass of water, waves the pitcher in Xander's direction in a wordless offer. He nods, and she pours him some, pressing the smooth, cool glass into his hand.
Then she picks up a remote control and flicks on the television set in her office's elegant entertainment center. The screen bursts into life on a close-up of Xander's face. There is no sound, just the mute picture, Xander looking intently at something just offscreen, his eyes darting to and away from whatever it is he's looking at, emotions zipping across his face. Cordelia freeze-frames on a particularly unflattering bit, right in the middle of an eye-blink, with his mouth twisted weirdly, like he's about to say something, or trying not to.
Xander squints. "So, what, you're trying to tell me I should listen when Tara tells me I need more concealer? 'Cause I'm sold; you can turn it off now."
Cordelia rolls her eyes, tosses aside the remote and perches on the desk. "Fine," she says. "Have it your way. Don't ask me why I bother; it's not like I'm running a lonely hearts club here."
Xander takes a moment to admire her legs as she crosses them neatly.
"The montage is going out to the distributors next week. End of story." He opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up her hand. "You lower sales by refusing to film with men, you deal with Anya's more creative ways of raising revenue. So if your inner moppet is sufficiently spanked now, what do you say we go back to business as usual? You drop your little all-straight movie campaign, we'll find you some more accomodating coworkers."
She leans back to root around in the neat pile of papers behind her, fishing out a folder and tossing it in Xander's lap.
"You're in Studio B tomorrow morning, and in Tara's new project next week. She wrote that one, so there's an actual script with character development and personal growth." She nails him with an acidic glare. "Do your best to fake that part."
Xander isn't the kind of guy to gloat about a petty little victory or anything. He goes with the flow, does his thing, lets the chips fall where they may.
Rushes to the gym to tell the gang Cordy finally let him off the hook.
---
The next afternoon finds Xander at the supermarket, filling his cart with the usual mix of virtuous grown-up food and the crap all the virtuous grown-up food and gym time lets him get away with eating. He's still up, almost jittery, feeling a little jig ready to spring up at any moment. He's peaceful, calm, blissful. Slept like a baby last night.
Well, like a baby who doesn't sleep all that well every second. A colicky baby.
Whatever colic is. Willow will know.
Anyway, the point is, Xander slept. Somewhat. Without the specter of Spike hovering over him, because he's finally had it out with The Man, and even though The Man is his ex-girlfriend, he won. So, sleep status aside, he's feeling refreshed. Renewed. Revitalized. Bring on Sheila, Sunday, Glory, hell, Darla herself, and he's good to go. He'll fuck 'em all, gladly, smile for the cameras, do 'em up in style, because Xander Harris is done with Spike for good, and if he never lays eyes on him again, it'll be too damn soon.
Which is fan-fucking-tastic all the way up until he bumps into Spike's cart in the produce aisle.
"Oi! Watch where you're-- Oh." Spike clutches his Romaine to his chest for a second, then drops it like it's on fire.
"Um, Spike." Okay, so it's not the strongest opening line ever. Xander goes for a save. "What, uh, what are you doing here?" Xander Harris, folks, prince of eloquence.
Spike looks down at his cart, then levels a pointed glance at the walls of food surrounding them.
Yeah, okay. Good point. "Well, it hasn't been lovely seeing you, Spike, so I'll just be on my way now. You have yourself a nice--" He catches a glimpse of the contents of Spike's cart. "Are those the good capers? And the fancy black olives from the deli section? And linguini, and sun-dried--you're making pasta puttanesca!"
"What if I am? It's a free country, innit?"
Xander narrows his eyes. "Yeah, well tell me one thing, Constitution Boy. You putting anchovies in that?"
Spike looks offended. "Like hell I am."
"I knew it! You're making our pasta!" That shameless hussy.
The shameless hussy in question shrugs. "Yeah, well. Dawn asked for it special for tomorrow night. She and some of the guys from the shoot--"
"You're making our pasta for other people? Without me?"
"Oi! We never said--"
"Some things are just understood, Spike! You'd know that if you weren't so... so you." And okay, Xander is not the bad guy here. He's not.
"Fine," Spike says, snatching up a nearby bunch of fresh basil. "I'll make pesto."
"Yeah, well... see that you do!"
"Oh, I will. Wouldn't make that pasta if it were the last pasta on earth. Don't know what I ever saw in it."
"Hey, that pasta sauce was moist and delicious, pal! It was hot and vivid and practically leapt off the plate, plus when you warmed it up and served it in those extra-wide pasta bowls it smelled fantastic and felt just like--"
"Yeah," Spike whispers, fingering his basil. He tosses it into his cart and juts out his chin. "Yeah, well, in retrospect, it was lousy. Craving something a little fresher. Rather have pesto any day of the week."
Oh, now he's gone too far. "You know what? You never deserved that pasta, anyway. I hope you and your pesto and everyone in the world who's coming over to your place to eat it has a spanking good time!"
"Oh, we will!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
It's only because Xander is a mature human being and the nice lady over by the squash is looking at them funny that he decides to leave it at that.
---
When Xander steps into the crowded dressing room at five a.m. to encounter most of the regular HMP players plus additional talent topless, pulling on teal Spandex hot pants and smearing blue glitter gel on each other, he doesn't even have to ask.
It's another Ethan Rayne production.
He slips out of his clothes and into what, sure, why not, he'll call his outfit. It's a big free-for-all with the glitter, so he joins in, slathering some on his chest. Willow asks him to do her back and he obliges, and if he didn't take advantage of that to sneak at least one little poke at the ticklish spot at the base of her spine, he'd not be human.
And if that sets off a small glitter gel skirmish, what with Willow's retaliatory strike going wide and catching Buffy between the ribs, Buffy's counterattack catching Faith off-guard and knocking her into a delighted Devon, well. That's just the price of art, right?
---
The entire studio is lit with blue gels, Xander notes, and heaven help them all, Ethan's hauled out the mirrored disco balls. A massive trampoline dominates one corner. "All right, everyone." Ethan claps his hands briskly. "We'll start off filming the trampoline work."
Everyone groans.
"Dude, trampolines suck," Devon mutters to Kendra.
"And you tink all de bouncing around is uncomfortable for you?" she snorts, glancing down at her considerable assets.
"Children, children! We are wasting valuable time here. I am an artist. I have a vision." Ethan waves his hand, taking in the retro set and the glittering throng of frowning, scantily clad porn stars. "I do not expect you to understand my vision. I merely expect you to put on your Spandex and get on the damned trampoline. Oz, the music, please!"
Funky seventies-style glam rock starts pumping as the grumbling dies down.
"Excellent. Now cue the bubble machines and get everyone on the trampoline now. Action!"
---
Glitter gel doesn't taste that bad, actually. At least, not on Kendra it doesn't. Or Devon. Or Faith, Buffy, or Forrest. It's hell to get out of your hair, though.
Or maybe that's just the lube.
Xander's still roughly toweling stray sparkles out of his hair when he stops by Lindsey's place on the way to the Bronze. Lindsey's truck sits in the driveway alongside a sleek silver BMW Xander doesn't recognize.
Just as he raises his hand to knock on the front door it opens, and Xander almost falls into Lauren Bacall's lap. He catches himself on the doorway, blinking.
"Alexander LaVelle Harris," Bacall smiles, holding out a hand for Xander to shake. "Lilah Morgan. Delighted to make your aquaintance. I'm a big fan of your work."
"Oh, you like my movies?"
"That, too," she smirks, stepping off the porch. Beep of her keys, slam of her car door, smooth rumble of the BMW's engine and she's gone.
Huh.
---
TBC