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Notes: Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting on this extended barrage on saussy's mental fortress. I'm not commenting back so much, in order to conserve strength for the war writing effort. But it gives me great pleasure to see people liking this stuff, because it confirms for me that you are all sick, sick kittens. I'm proud to call you my friends.
Prawnverse part 4
It's clear Xander's not wholly at ease with his new role as concubine, and Spike sympathizes up to a point. But really, he's been around long enough to have seen or done just about everything a person can do to get by, and sex is just the coin you use when you're out of all the others. He's paid his own fare with it before, he knows what it's like. Sometimes nasty as hell, sometimes not so bad. Xander stays, even though he's free to leave, so it can't be too rotten for him.
In fact, Spike knows it's not too rotten, because he's there. He's the one with his lube-slick hand on Xander's dick, feeling him get hard as iron, watching his intelligence leak out his ears and seeing his eyes fill up with wild, blind obedience instead. Xander's a good lay. A surprisingly good lay. And he gets better, the more he's laid. Funny, that.
Still, he's conflicted. He doesn't explain what he's doing here, what cut him from the Slayer's little group, and Spike doesn't ask. He fucks him on the nights he's around, not working. Wednesday through Saturday, he pretty much leaves him alone. They don't really talk. Xander heats blood up and carries it over to the table for Spike. He doesn't eat eggs anymore.
Then one stray Thursday Spike gets off a couple of hours early and comes home before it's light, a little drunk and more than a little horny. Nothing much on his mind but sex, he heads for the little spare room that Xander sleeps in. He never goes in there; by now, by silent agreement, it's Xander's private space. Sex happens in Spike's bedroom, in the kitchen, the living room, the shower, wherever, but Xander's room is out of bounds. So Spike's thinking he's going to wake Xander up and tell him to come to his own room, with the usual understanding. He should just knock, but instead he opens the door and looks in.
It smells like sweat and terror, and Xander's in there on the little fold-up cot, asleep, weeping in fear. Spike freezes. He's not sure what to do. Something about the tears completely stuns him, like a mallet between the eyes, and he has two automatic, conflicting impulses. The first is to go over to Xander, get an arm around him, wake him up. It's not personal; it's just the part of Spike that used to take care of Dru. The other impulse is to get the hell out.
He gets the hell out.
He heats up some blood and sits at the kitchen table with the light off, reading and rereading headlines on old newspapers while the stove clock ticks over and finally hits six am. There's a creak of springs, and then Xander's door opens. A minute later he's in the kitchen, his sheets bundled up in his arms, heading for the washer. His shirt and shorts are soaked in sweat. He looks glazed, on automatic pilot. He doesn't even notice Spike sitting at the table until he's halfway across the room and Spike turns a page. Then he jumps back and runs into the island counter, his eyes huge and black.
He's been doing this for weeks, Spike realizes. Nightmares, night sweats, and laundry before Spike gets home.
The soul needles him, tells him he's supposed to say something, or do something, or be a completely different person with a kindly twinkle and oatmeal wisdom. The soul is stupid. He gives Xander a steady look, head to toe, then goes back to the newspaper. "I'll be off to bed in half an hour."
That gives Xander enough time to throw his things in the wash and take a shower, himself, before getting to Spike's bedroom. He stands there a minute, blank, not following, then finally nods. Turns numbly, goes to the laundry closet, and starts the cycle. Spike sits at the table pretending to read articles until Xander disappears into the bathroom; then he sits staring up at the ceiling over his head, holding his mug to his chest. He should kick the kid out. He can get sex in other places.
The shower runs for twenty-seven minutes—waste of water—and then stops. Spike leaves his mug on the table and goes to bed. By the time he's sitting on his side, pulling his shirt slowly off over his head, Xander's there. Towel around his waist, wet head, little blank smile. Reporting for duty. Spike glances at him, skins his jeans off, and rolls under the sheets. Xander, when he receives no instructions, drops the towel and gets in at the other side. Then he lies waiting, close enough to touch, his heartbeat a steady controlled tapping, like water dripping from an eave.
"Turn around," Spike says, and Xander turns around. He's a little stiff in the shoulders, the spine, anticipating. Spike slides over and puts his head against the back of Xander's neck, his arms around his waist. Body to body, belly to back. He can feel Xander stay rigid, waiting for whatever's going to come next. "Go to sleep."
He's exhausted. He's asleep in five minutes, without feeling the kid relax at all.
