"I liked that song...made me feel...bouncy." And Xander was bouncy. He was bouncing his foot on the floor as he lay back on the sofa, his head pillowed on Spike's bare thigh.

"Then you need more pot and less Pixie Stix," Spike growled, passing the joint. "What band was that, Wolf?"

Oz looked up from where he crouched on the floor, naked, next to the CD player. "Dandy Warhols."

"'ere," Xander squeaked. He leaned as far as he could off the couch and Oz stretched, and their fingertips managed to meet in the middle to pass the roach.

Spike leaned down, and Xander kissed him, exhaling a lungful of smoke into his mouth.

"More Death Cab for Cutie," Xander requested, and Oz located the proper disc and got it going before extinguishing the microscopic remains of the joint in the ashtray. He stood and shook himself a little, and scratched at his belly. "Sticky," he observed, speaking to no one in particular.

Spike finally exhaled. "Not sticky enough by half," he said, reaching out a hand. Oz took it and allowed himself to be pulled toward the others.