I Really Shouldn't...
Xander's guilty pleasures were kept under lock and key, secure from prying eyes and poking fingers. He didn't indulge often, his Sire kept him busy, but every now and then he took an hour for himself, slipped the bolt and opened up the box.
The feel of fresh-carved wood between his hands made Xander shiver, as sensuous to stroke as Spike's cool flesh. The delicate curls of shavings, flakes and chips and odds and ends, were tucked away within his deepest pockets.
The stakes he carved were whittled down to twigs and then destroyed. Spike's only childe wasn't a fool.
The first time Spike felt guilty for a week. He showered his childe with gifts of love and blood.
The second time it happened he was mortified and tried to make his lover understand it was a fluke.
Then it didn't happen for a year, but when it did, Xander played his role to the hilt. He growled, he sneered, he tried an Irish accent for a while, not well, but still, it proved he didn't mind so very much.
So Xander got to top his Sire and, every now and then, Spike got to pretend he was the childe.