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Notes: saussy's supposed to beg for this Spander blizzard to stop. saussy's a hard, hard woman. She's not begging. And so, we're digging into the hard drive.
A leetle S/X WIP pron, for the obdurate saussy and the idly interested _flaming_june_. Literary quality not ensured. No warranties apply.
Prawnverse part 1
"Number five," Xander says, hardly glancing at the menu, but giving the waitress a long, hopeful look. "Brown toast, eggs over hard." He shoots a quick glance at Spike across the table, assessing. "And a number three." There's a little pause while she scribbles on her pad, and Xander sits with his shoulders up, waiting to be shot down. Spike just grins. When the waitress looks at him, he says, "Coffee."
The place is almost empty, just a couple of hatchet-faced teenage addicts sprawled out along the counter, drawing circles in spilled Pepsi. Dru would have loved this place. Would have eaten everyone in it. He puts a boot up on the bench beside Xander and leans his head back against the vinyl.
"So." Xander's staring at his hands. Short dirty fingernails, skin cold-flushed. He smells like he'd been on that street corner for a while; smells like cold air and unwashed skin. Not a bad smell. Actually, a really fucking great smell, under the circumstances. Spike smiles and folds his own hands on the table in front of him. Neat and clean by comparison. And a whole fuck of a lot stronger.
"You always eat two breakfasts?" He's careful with his tone; he's buying the food, so he can get away with a good percentage of smarm, but nobody's got a gun to Xander's head. He can get up and walk back out if he wants to, and he's always been a bit of a prick. So, just enough sincere concern to keep him sitting there, at least until the food arrives. Once he's eating, he's a goner.
"Used to be hungry a lot," Spike goes on, since Xander's not saying anything. "Back in Sunnydale, with the chip still in. Couldn't hunt." That gets him a quick, startled look—Xander hadn't known the chip was out. Spike smiles. "Got a soul now, so I don't hunt. And a job, so I don't starve."
The waitress reappears with coffee for both of them, paper menus, knives and forks wrapped in napkins. They both sit back and let her do her thing, making a homey little scene between them. When she's gone, Spike pushes his napkin aside and wraps his hands around his coffee cup. It's bloody cold out.
"Just passing through?" he asks, blowing on his coffee. Xander toys with his fork and watches over Spike's shoulder to see if the waitress is coming back. To see if the food's on its way. "Got a job?"
The food arrives, two giant plates of cheap bread and eggs and fried potatoes, and Xander eats it all. Spike sits watching him, occasionally shifting his gaze to the burnouts at the counter waiting for their phone call. Not too much difference, really. Xander eats fast.
"Got a place to stay?" Spike asks when he's finished. The tone on that one is exquisite, disingenuous. Xander gives him another quick look, then stares back down at his empty plates as if expecting to see them fill back up with food. The waitress brings the check. All told, it sets Spike back ten bucks.
"Come on," he says, dropping the bill on the table and standing up. Behind him, he hears Xander slowly collect his windbreaker and follow. It's a good thing he doesn't reflect in the black glass of the door, because if Xander saw the way he's grinning, it would probably cock the whole thing up.
"In here." He kicks open the door to the spare room, and flicks the light on with the palm of his hand. Squints a little at the glare; there was no shade on the bulb when he took the place, and he hasn't bothered to put one on since. Don't need a shade in a room that he never goes into. That's empty except for cardboard boxes of Clash and Ramones and New York Dolls, piles of gunked-up bar clothes he hasn't got around to washing or throwing out, a couple of things left behind by women who've been and gone. One kept a miniature alarm clock in her purse, in case the guy of the night didn't have one at home. Forgot it when she left. Ironically.
Xander stays back in the hall, his hands behind his back, hooked into the waistband of his jeans. His eyes are watchful, on the wall, the floor, flickering over Spike but not sticking, and not really making it into the room. Like he's afraid of what he might see in there.
"Su casa," Spike says, backing up a step. Xander gives him a long look, then steps forward and peers around the doorframe. His hair hasn't been cut in a while; it's down over his collar. He's thinner than he used to be. You can see the bones of his elbows through the faded plaid workshirt, the worn-out thermal under that. His jeans hang off his hips. He smells like toothpaste and cold corner air. Like a suburb kid dropped in the city. Which is what he is.
"Had a cot around here somewhere," Spike says, leaning against the wall and giving Xander the once-over, heels to head, lingering on his ass, wherever it is, hidden in those bagged-out jeans. He expects and wants Xander to turn around and catch him at it, but it's as if Xander knows exactly what he's doing, and has steeled himself not to react. He just stands there, looking into the cruddy little room, nodding slightly. "I'll dig it out while you take a shower."
Xander keeps nodding, and he's in profile now, examining the LPs in the boxes against the wall. He's got nice eyelashes. Nice lips. And he's nodding still, doing the math, the addition and the subtraction. In the plus column: he'll get his own room. Crappy little room, but cleanish and he'll have a bed, somewhere to sleep. In the minus column: he's been told to go take a shower. Which, if he's been paying attention, ought to tell him that the room isn't free. Even if he hasn't, he's been around long enough to know that nothing's free in this world. He keeps nodding, staring blankly at the baseboard. Spike considers putting a hand out, touching him, clueing him in definitively. Then he thinks even Xander's not that dumb, and if he is, it's sort of fascinating to watch him puzzle it out.
The soul jabs its little needle into him, something about letting Xander stay without strings, and he steps on it. Hard. He's a souled vampire, not a fucking saint. It's rent, is all. And all right, the thought of the Slayer's boy paying rent on his back, on the end of Spike's dick, is pretty goddamn nice. He's still a vampire, after all. He's got grudges.
"Bathroom's this way," he says, and takes another step back. For a second Xander doesn't follow; he just stands with his hands hooked into the back of his jeans, staring at the junk-filled room as if he's trying to make some kind of peace with it. Must have figured it out. Must have.
The soul gets shrill and Spike smacks it.
