::.. Witlingville ..::

Gloryhole part 10 - conclusion

They watched telly together, at opposite ends of Spike's beaten couch. Xander sat with his feet curled under him, unconsciously making himself small, his hand covering his punctured ear. Spike sat slumped with a cup of tea. The government spokesvoice droned on: umbrellas, crowded areas, authorities. Outside, there was a popping sound and someone started screaming curses.

"It's weird." Xander let his head fall to the arm of the couch, and wrapped his arms around his chest as if he were cold. "I thought it would be..."

"Faster?"

"Kind of."

"Takes time to overthrow the world. Trust me, I tried."

Bug jumped onto the windowsill in the kitchen, and Xander glanced over at her. "You have a cat."

Spike saw no reason to respond. After a minute, Xander turned back to the television. "Willow totally called that."

"Can I take a shower?" His punches thrown, his chair swung, Xander had gone uncertain and submissive. He seemed preoccupied, caught up in some inner theatre that made him easy to startle, easy to boss around. Spike had no stomach for bossing. It had occurred to him that this was the first time Xander had been outside a gaming house in...years, probably. The first time he'd been out in the world. Prisoners learned how to live in their cells, but they forgot how to walk down the street. Common knowledge, but pathetic to see it in practice. Begging you for hot water and a bar of soap.

Sympathy made him gruff, and he walked Xander down the hall to the bathroom without a word. Turned the water on and tested it--after a couple of minutes, it ran hot. Xander spent the time hovering in the doorway, studying everything with those big black eyes. Spike's shower curtain, Spike's sink, Spike's toothbrush. He put out a hand and lightly touched Spike's razor, lying on the counter.

"You shave."

"Yeah." Self-defense made the word a challenge. Xander shrank back.

"Sure. I knew that."

"Don't mess the blade up. Bloody hard to get them now." Spike stood up, shook water off his hand, and pushed past Xander to get out. He smelled warmth, blood, anxiety. Tuna. "And don't use all the hot water, either. Probably won't get much more."

Xander nodded and stripped his shirt off, single-minded and unselfconscious, already heading for the water. His back was smooth and brown--whatever they'd done to him, it hadn't marked him there. For some reason, that gave Spike a chill.

When the shower shut off, Spike was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, toeing plate shards. It was getting light. Vaguely, he wondered how many more mornings he'd be around to shut the blinds on the sunrise. Maybe not a lot. The realization felt easy to accept--he'd had a fair run of it, the last hundred something years. Of course, when it actually came down to it he'd fight for more, like all the rest. Zen mind only went so far.

Xander came out of the bathroom and stood silently in the kitchen doorway. He'd dressed again in the borrowed khakis and sweatshirt, as if they were his armor. His hair was wet and black, and he'd shaved. He looked young and uncertain and familiar, except for the tag in his ear. They used to put those on cattle.

"'m going to bed." Spike stooped down and picked up a piece of plate as if he'd been looking for just that one. He tossed it into the sink with a satisfying clank. "You can take the couch."

That bit of churlishness seemed to let some of the tension out of Xander's shoulders. He nodded, his fingers finding the tag and touching it lightly again. "Okay."

"Got some wire cutters around here somewhere." Without looking up, Spike yanked drawers open and pawed through the junk inside. God knew where all the crap came from. Since when did he own a tape measure? The cutters were at the bottom, left over from a couple of chain link fences that had needed vandalizing. "Once that's off, though, you're a free lunch."

He put them on the counter and walked out without waiting to see what Xander would do.

It was strange to take his clothes off with someone else in the flat. Strange to lie down and close his eyes and wait for sleep, knowing there was a body in the next room doing the same thing. Especially a body that might be lying there thinking of ways to stake him. It was a little uncomfortable, and not very relaxing.

He laced his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling, and wondered if he was sorry. About Xander, about the lying or the sex. About anything else--those years in Sunnydale, the ones that seemed like a blip now, when he lost Dru and almost bagged a third Slayer. About wandering the world slitting throats. About Angelus. He decided he wasn't sorry about much, but he regretted laying money against Man o'War in '22. As an afterthought, he took his watch off and tossed it onto the bedside table in the darkness. It slid off and he heard the glass face break. He didn't bother getting up. After a while, he fell asleep.

There was a weight on the bed beside him, and a warm hand pressed against his throat. He was instantly awake, perfectly cognizant, as if he'd only closed his eyes a second ago. It was late afternoon, somehow. He could tell by the slant of the light coming through the half-shut blinds.

"Your cat," Xander said, "is hungry."

Spike blinked. Xander was sitting on the mattress beside him, still in his khakis and sweatshirt, meeting his eyes with all the seriousness in the world. Hard to tell whether he'd slept--he looked pretty alert. The tag was gone. Two dark red holes showed where the rings had gone through the rim of his ear.

"She walked on my head," Xander said. "And she tried to bite me."

"She's a bitch," Spike said, still on his back. "I was going to call her Buffy."

"But your conscience prevailed."

"Not really. Just got tired of two syllables."

Xander's hand was still on his throat, for no apparent reason. He glanced down at it, then up at Xander. "You flirting with me?"

"I was thinking about cutting your head off, actually." Xander lifted his hand and studied the skin beneath it. "But you don't have an axe."

Spike lay thinking about that for a minute. "No," he agreed at last. "I don't."

Out in the kitchen, The Bug made a plaintive suggestion. Spike frowned. "She had that fish already."

"When did you get a cat?" Xander asked, swinging his legs onto the bed and stretching out as if Spike had invited him.

"Didn't. Just turned up one day. What are you doing?"

"Lying down." Xander pillowed his head on his folded arms and smiled. The pose, Spike realized, was almost exactly the one from the photograph in Forsythe's album. That was a bit unsettling. "Your couch sucks."

"That's why I gave it to you."

"I figured." It shouldn't be unusual to see Xander raise his arm and reach for Spike's shoulder. "That's why I'm in here." His hand was warm and steady, and he rested it on Spike's shoulder, then pulled gently. Spike let himself be turned onto his side.

"What are you doing?" he asked again, when they were face to face.

"I kind of hate you," Xander said. "But you're the only one left."

"The only what?"

"And you got me out. Sort of."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "You look pretty fully out to me."

"And I told you," Xander said, leaning forward and ghosting warm breath over Spike's lips, "that if you got me out, I'd do anything you wanted."

"I don't want this," Spike said, without conviction.

"I do."

Xander's mouth was warm and soft, as gentle as a woman's. He smelled like soap. It was strange to be the naked one, then, as Xander rolled them over, the one on the bottom. Strange but not bad. Being on the bottom didn't always mean being the bottom. Being the bottom didn't always mean being the bottom, for that matter. Spike let Xander take his wrists in either hand and pull them away from his body, up over his head. The stretch felt good.

"Gonna tie me up?" he asked, when there was a momentary space between their mouths.

"I told you," Xander said. "You don't have an axe. So there's not much point, is there?"

So it was confused and conflicted sex, then. Spike smiled happily--he knew how to do this.

He let Xander pin his hands, and just used his mouth and his hips to show that he liked this. He liked the warmth of Xander's body on top of him, he liked the weight. He liked the hard rub of their cocks fighting for dominance through the heavy cotton of Xander's trousers. He pushed his hips up, Xander shoved them back down. It was like playing with a kitten, letting it believe it was a lion. It was strangely endearing, it made him feel tender and hard at the same time. He tipped his head back, and Xander took the suggestion willingly. His teeth were hard and sharp in Spike's throat. For a second, it was almost possible to believe he'd break the surface. Spike's dick snapped to full attention.

"Fuck, yeah." He closed his eyes and rolled his head against the pillow, letting a faint vibration build in the pit of his throat. That felt good, too. Xander set his teeth in like a bull terrier and hung on. For a couple of minutes they were wrestling as much as necking. Xander's cock jabbed Spike's leg and belly. His breath was hot and wet against Spike's skin.

Then Xander suddenly let go of Spike's left wrist and fumbled with the fly of his trousers. In a second he had his dick out, jerking roughly in his fist, then coating Spike's belly with come. A little startled, Spike lay still. Xander's eyes were closed, his cheeks were red. He gasped, shook his hand off, then wiped it on the sheets. "Damn it."

"Uh--" For some reason, Spike couldn't think what to say. Xander solved the problem by rolling off him and burying his face in the pillow with a sigh. He was still wearing all his clothes.

Spike stared at Xander's back, then down at his own wet belly and hard dick. It wasn't a completely unfamiliar sight--back in the old days, he'd been left like this more than once. He preferred to do the leaving, though. "You done, then?"

Xander muttered something into the pillow, and Spike frowned. "This what it's like when you're not getting paid?" No response. He shrugged and wrapped his hand around his dick to finish things off as fast as possible.

He must have fallen asleep afterward, because he woke up shoved to the very edge of the bed, curled around the pillow in a kind of fetal position. It was night now. Xander was sprawled on his back in the middle of the mattress, snoring. It took Spike a minute to remember why he was there at all.

"Jesus Christ." He sat halfway up and hit Xander in the face with the pillow, startling him awake. "Shove over, you big twit."

Xander blinked at the ceiling, then at Spike. He'd taken the sweatshirt off at some point, and he was radiating heat. Sleep-dazed, he frowned. "What?"

"I'm kicking you out as soon as it's light, Harris."

Xander's eyes focused a little more, and looked at Spike with a new expression. Or an old one. He looked irritated. "You woke me up to tell me your plan for the next twelve hours?"

"I woke you up to shift your fat arse a few inches. It's my bloody bed, all right?"

"Jesus, Spike." Xander shoved over to the far side of the mattress, and wiped his hand over his face. "Your generosity is overwhelming."

"I'm not the one who got his end away and rolled over, am I?"

"Who what?" Xander looked irritated and confused, then a bit embarrassed. Then righteousness crowded back in. "Pardon my sexual dysfunction, will you? I've only been a vampire whore for the last couple of years, I'm sure I'll get over it pretty soon."

Spike opened his mouth, then shut it again. He didn't have much to say to that, he realized. Xander snorted and rolled over onto his belly, his hands trapped beneath him and his head turned the other way. Strange way to lie, but everyone had one. Spike studied Xander's bare back in silence.

"What'd they do to you?" he asked after a couple of minutes, when he could tell Xander wasn't going to fall asleep again.

Xander's back tensed. "Fuck off."

"Doesn't look like they beat you up." He said it carefully, trying to keep his tone neutral. "It's mind stuff?"

After a long pause, Xander said, "Yeah."

"Angelus did that kind of thing," Spike said. "Saw him drive a bloke crazy once, just hammering away at him. Kept him in a steamer trunk and took him out to talk at him. Poor wanker was a lunatic inside a week."

"That's nice."

"Not really." Spike let it go, since there was no point in pursuing it. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, wondering where Angelus was now and whether he knew the world was ending again.

Shortly before dawn, Xander woke up. Spike was already awake, listening to the cat chirrup at the kitchen window and wondering whether he wanted a cigarette. There was no conversation, this time. Xander reached out, Spike rolled in. They intertwined.

Spike got Xander's trousers off and tossed them away into the gloom. Then they were both naked, hot and cool, hard between each other's legs, their hands fumbling. Xander groaned. Spike kissed the punctures in his ear and opened the bedside drawer. The lube was the same kind they had at Forsythe's--a moment of bizarre judgment on his part, months before. Xander laughed hollowly. Then Spike slicked his fingers and stroked them down Xander's dick, and he seemed to stop caring about labels.

Without discussion, Spike ended up on top. Xander was willing, more than willing. Eager. His fingers dug into Spike's shoulders, his hips lifted impatiently. "Fuck, come on."

"You got someplace to go?" Spike smiled, two fingers in now. Xander arched up, his ribs standing out, his biceps lifting.

"You're such a bastard."

"Always have been."

"God damn it, Spike, will you just--"

But Spike wouldn't, not for another few minutes, not until Xander was red-faced and red-dicked, holding himself tight in his own fist to keep control. Then Spike would, and did. It was awkward, a little. Always was. But Xander accommodated, and Spike was strong, and they ended up face to face, moving in the same dreamy rhythm. Xander's mouth was open, he was gasping. There was sweat in the hollow of his throat. Spike leaned down over him, feeling the heat come off him in waves, smelling his skin. It was almost perfect.

Later, it was hard to remember exactly how things happened--whether the wave of his orgasm hit first, or the lights. They seemed to happen at the same moment, and Xander was gasping raggedly too, starting to come because Spike was coming, and the first thing Spike's addled brain thought when the flares went off was, Fireworks? He'd always thought it was just an expression.

Then he realized what it was--lights in the night sky, bright as day--and closed his eyes so he wouldn't see the end. Then he opened them again, to see Xander.

There was life after death. He'd known that already, of course, but he hadn't known how many varieties there were, or how many he was slated for. He'd survived a hundred apocalypses by now, mostly in spite of himself--someone up there must like him. Besides Harris, that was. Whether or not Harris liked him was still up for debate.

The sewers were cleaner nowadays, which was one happy consequence of the world having ended so many times. Humans might rule the planet again, but there weren't as many of them as there used to be. Now you could stand directly under La Cienega at rush hour, and count fifty cars in an hour. You could make an aboveground run from West Hollywood to the Malibu Hills and see hardly enough prey on the streets to make a decent lunch. The sewers were emptier, too. Not many vamps made it through the light shows, especially after the insurgents took the Orb. Not many vamps had a human willing to hide them in a basement apartment for six months.

Spike hopped off the catwalk and swung down into the big pipe, the one that led to Silverlake. It was a half-hour walk, and he spent it counting rats and fingering the odds and ends in his pockets. He'd winnowed it down now that he didn't have a fixed place of abode. A few stakes, some cash, a couple of mementos he ought to get rid of but couldn't seem to throw away.

The manhole was still ajar, still propped the way he'd left it. No sign that anyone had noticed anything strange about it, or done any tampering. He eased it carefully aside, then swung up onto the street and shifted it back fast. The air was clean and cool, a relief after the constant sweaty fug of the sewers. He got out of the street and onto the sidewalk, heading for the park, before anyone noticed him.

Harris was already there, sitting on the bench where he always was. Slouched down with his arms over the back and his legs kicked out, like he was biding time on the dole. He worked for the government now, such as it was. Going into old vamp businesses and tearing them down or refitting them so humans could use them again. He made a good wage, had people's respect. Half the humans left in the world had been whores or servants, fifth columnists, so no stigma there. Just a tendency to brood.

Spike took a seat on the bench beside Xander, stretched his legs out, and crossed him at the ankles. "Nice night."

"Yeah." Xander sounded tired, a little down. There were circles under his eyes, Spike noticed.

"How's life on the surface?"

"Okay."

"Spare a pint?"

Without a word, Xander picked up the brown paper bag sitting beside his left leg, and slid it down the bench toward Spike. Spike pulled it the rest of the way, and made it disappear into his coat. "Ta."

"Sure."

There was a pause. Xander's gaze was on the little fountain in the middle of the park, dry now that the city had bigger problems than civic beauty. Spike pulled his cigarettes out and lit one, then offered the packet. Xander shook his head.

"How's The Bug?"

"Fine. Bitchy." Xander scratched his head. "She bit me again."

"Good girl."

Xander laughed, then sighed and stood up. "Okay, have a good night."

"Hang on." Xander waited, and Spike realized he didn't know what to say. He stood up too. "I'll walk you a ways."

They walked back down the path and out through the little gate, onto the sidewalk. Not many people on the streets anymore, but the few who passed them didn't look twice. Nobody expected vamps anymore, and Spike had let the bleach job go. He looked like everyone else now--thin and harried. Like he had things on his mind.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, flicking ash into the gutter.

Xander looked at him sideways. "Nothing."

"You're going to trip on your bottom lip, Harris. What's up?"

They walked half a block before Xander said, "I don't know. I...miss people."

"Like who?"

"Willow. Buffy." He coughed to hide the way his voice had cracked. "Everyone."

Spike wished, for the hundredth time, that Xander would start smoking so he could at least offer a cigarette. "Right."

"Whatever. I'm fine, I'll be fine."

"You lonely?" He asked it without thinking, without realizing how intimate the question was. It startled him, hearing it out in the open like that. He half-expected Xander to hit him for using the word.

Xander let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. "Yeah."

It was pathetic to say me too, so Spike said nothing. He nodded and fingered the junk in his pockets. They came to the corner and crossed the street, passing a man on an overloaded, wavering bicycle.

"Must be a lot of that around," Spike said finally. "I bet you could meet someone, if you wanted to."

"I don't want to."

"Just want to be a sad bastard on your own, then."

"Yeah." Xander sounded irritated now. "Actually, no. I want my friends back. I want my life back, Spike."

"I hear that's going around, too."

"Uh-huh." Glumly, Xander kicked a plastic bottle into the street. "It's kind of getting me down."

"You've got The Bug," Spike said, trying to sound heartening without sounding like he was trying. "And you've got me."

"Which will come in handy if I ever need my throat torn out."

"I wouldn't do that." Genuinely affronted, Spike stopped walking. "You think I'd do that? After all this time?"

"Spike--" Xander stopped too, exasperated and then weary. "No. I don't think you'd tear my throat out."

"And I don't think you'd stake me."

"Don't count on that."

"Not like you haven't had the chance."

"Steal one more CD from my house and see how far you get."

"Been meaning to say," Spike said, starting to walk again. "You need better music. Foghat doesn't bring much in cash these days."

"I'll see if I can get some import stuff, to boost your resale take."

"Ta very much."

They turned the corner onto Xander's street. The street lights were out again--the grid was back up, but unreliable. In the darkness, Spike turned and caught hold of the front of Xander's coat.

"Spike, people can still see us."

"So?"

Xander's mouth tasted like beer, and his hands were warm. He held himself still at first, a little bit aloof. Then he opened his mouth and let a small groan slip through his teeth. His hands tightened on Spike's shoulder and hip. It was going to be one of those nights, Spike knew. The kind where the sex was a conversation, hour after hour of raw questions and firm answers.

"Found this," he said, when Xander leaned away. He dug in his pocket and pulled out the tag. He'd had it the whole time, actually. Just one of those things he hadn't wanted to get rid of yet. "Thought you might want it."

Xander took it out of the flat of Spike's palm, studied it with a frown, then turned and tossed it into the street. It hit the pavement, bounced, and dropped through a sewer grate.

"Come on in," he said, turning back and leading the way up the steps.

Above them, The Bug sat in the attic window. She watched them walk up the steps and disappear through the front door. Their feet travelled through the hall and up the stairs to the bedroom. The door opened and closed. There was quiet. She went back to studying the empty street below, her eyes as big as moons.