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Prawnverse part 8
In bed, he sits on the backs of Xander's legs and runs a hand from the base of his skull down to his tailbone, just alongside his spine. His skin's paler than it used to be, but he's a golden California boy, he'll never have that clear, almost blue English pallor. Had enough sun in his life he'll always have it with him, just under his skin. Spike puts the heel of his hand into the muscle under Xander's scapula and pushes. Xander shifts slightly, but doesn't loosen. He lets it happen, is all. Puts up with it, like everything else. Spike glances at him, sees that his eyes are closed, keeps pushing.
"Been thinking," he says. Xander's skin is warm, his ribs are strong and hard. He doesn't respond at all to Spike's voice. "You must get bored here. All alone all the time."
There's silence, except for the faint chug of the washing machine out in the closet. Monday's wash day. Outside in the world, it's eleven o'clock in the morning and sunny. White light edges through the blinds, just enough to make the room dim instead of dark. Snug little world they have in here.
Xander still hasn't said anything, and Spike runs his thumb down his spine, finds a knot, and presses. Xander goes stiff, and his eyes open.
"I'm not bored," he says quickly. "That hurts."
"Sorry." Spike gives the knot a last knuckling and moves on. "What about money? You could use some more."
A long pause, while his hands keep moving as if he hasn't said anything, as if he always rubs Xander's back, as if they're like that to each other. He realizes belatedly that it might be a bad combination, back rub and proposal. He just wanted some contact, something besides fucking, which feels increasingly useless and has started him dreaming about Dru again. Thought maybe he could get away with it if he was careless and incidental enough. Angelus always did. If he wanted to put his hands on you, he knocked you down and did it. Couldn't call him a poof because if you did he'd rip your fucking throat out. Clever bastard.
But now that Spike's got his hands on Xander's back, now that he's said what he's been slowly thinking up for the last couple of weeks, he feels strange and awkward and Christ, poofy. Fucking's one thing, goddamn ayurveda's another. He leans back, lets his weight rest on Xander's legs so he's pinned, and puts his index finger on the kid's tailbone. Just the one finger, circling over the lowest possible point before this slips into something less complicated for both of them. Like that brief foray into the New Age never happened. He can feel Xander stiffen right away, can actually see it in his naked back, and God, he's sick of that. He used to want to see that. When did he stop wanting to see that?
"I—" Xander's voice is rough, strained, and he has to stop and clear his throat before he can go on. His eyes are fixed on the far wall, his hands are hidden under the pillow. "I don't want to make any more money."
"Everyone wants to make more money," Spike says, studying Xander's shoulders.
"I don't."
"Well, you're not going to get rich off what I give you for frozen entrees. And unless your sole ambition in life is to watch TeleTubbies on my bloody telly, you're going to—"
"I don't want to make more money." That's loud. And Xander doesn't usually interrupt. Spike pauses. Xander's still staring at the far wall; while Spike watches him, he swallows convulsively and his shoulders flex. Must be making fists under the pillow.
"Why not?" Spike keeps his voice quiet. Keeps his finger where it is, because moving it would just draw attention.
Xander shakes his head and clenches his jaw. "I'm fine," he says. "I don't need more money. Thanks."
"You could buy—"
"Jesus Christ." Xander turns his head and buries his face in the pillow, then suddenly twists around hard and tries to buck Spike off. He's furious, frightened, his eyes are wet and every muscle in his side stands out as he lies there half-flipped, pinned under Spike's legs, panting. "I do not want another job, Spike. Please." He swipes at his eyes and wipes his wet palms on the sheet. "Okay? Please. No."
Spike sits still, trying to catch up. Xander won't look at him, just lies staring fixedly at the wall, trying to get his breathing back down. He's fucking crying, for God's sake. Spike's baffled, shocked, a little scared. Then suddenly it all clicks into place and he gets it, and thinks, Oh, fuck.. He's an idiot. Never another back rub, that was a numbskull thing to do.
He lifts up off Xander's legs, reaches down, and catches his wrists. Pulls him over onto his back and sits down on him before he can do anything about it. Xander's face is wet, furious, humiliated. The best thing to do is just ignore it, pretend it's not happening. Don't wipe his face, don't touch him. Just hold his arms in case he gets any bright ideas about using his fists.
"The bar needs a busser," Spike says, calmly and reasonably, as if they're having this conversation at the kitchen table over blood and coffee. "Kid quit last week, they need somebody. Be good to have someone who knows about the clientele, won't pitch a fit if some of them have fins and fur." Xander's staring up at him, realization sinking in, and Spike watches the fear and anger drain out of his face and leave him just slack. He could ask now—What did you think I meant, more clients? Japanese businessmen? A pager? But there's no real point in asking, because it's right there in front of him, in Xander's arms going loose in his hands. Yeah, that's what he thought. And who can blame him? It's how he pays his rent, after all.
"If you're interested," he says, and lets go of Xander's wrists. Xander takes his hands back and wipes his face, turns his head sideways against the pillow and lies there breathing, staring at the other wall for a change. After a minute Spike gets off his legs and, for lack of anything better to do with his hands, takes his cigarettes off the night stand. Here's where he should say, You can pay rent with it. He should say it, but he doesn't. So it all feels a little anticlimactic.
He lights a cigarette and drops the packet and the lighter back on the night stand, blows smoke at the ceiling. The washer thumps.
"Okay," Xander says finally.
Spike studies the ash on his cigarette and tries to feel clever.
The thing about the busser quitting is true, and so's the part about wanting someone who can be blasé about the clientele. The only part Spike didn't share is the reason he wants Xander to take the job in the first place, which of course is so that Xander will be there, working, instead of wandering around the city all night eating diner food with his little hooker friends. It's not safe, for one thing. And for another, he could use a steady job. A steadier job. One that doesn't involve him getting that sealed-over look on his face.
Spike's not sure when he turned into Xander Harris's keeper, and he's not sure he really wants the role. It was all less complicated when he just wanted a vengeance fuck.
"I was due that much, wasn't I?" he asks nobody in particular, slamming the driver's side door and starting for the back entrance. Xander falls quietly in behind him, and he feels the ineluctable urge to lecture.
"'s all under the table, so don't go asking for W2s and dental."
"Right."
"Texas is a surly motherfucker, won't tell you anything twice, and if he sees you slacking off he'll chuck a shot glass at your head."
"Okay."
"Seen him peg a bloke before, took twelve stitches."
"Uh-huh."
"So don't fuck around, and don't ask stupid questions, and don't go near him unless you have to. Don't talk to any women. Don't talk to anyone. Just bus, that's what you're getting paid to do."
"Okay."
They're at the door now, and Spike stops and turns on his heel. He's been strangely nervous all afternoon, couldn't sleep properly, and right now he feels edgy and carbonated and all out of sorts. Xander, on the other hand, looks calm. He's wearing a clean white T-shirt and dark jeans, left his jacket in the car because the bar gets hot and there's no point bringing it in. His eyes are dark and deep, his lips look soft. He's beautiful, Spike realizes. Immediately he feels knobby-faced, garish, short. At the same time, he's hit with a surge of anxiety, thinking it was a stupid idea to bring Xander here, introduce him to the bar where anyone could see him, have a go at him. He's, what, nineteen years old? Too young for a place like this.
He reaches out and flicks an imaginary speck off Xander's shirt. Xander stands still and lets him do it, his eyes steady. Spike gives him a final once-over, turns to the door, then turns quickly back.
"We're not fucking," he says sharply, getting a finger up in Xander's face. "You and me. You're just some bloke I know, thought you might be good for the job. That's all. Understand?"
Xander looks down at the finger, then back at Spike's face. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I understand."
Spike clamps down on the unhappy froth inside him and turns back to the door. Behind him, Xander says, "Do we live together?"
"No." Wait, he'll have to give Texas a phone number for Xander. "No, yeah, we do." But fuck, if Xander's living with him it'll be obvious to everyone what's going on. "Fuck, look, just don't talk to anyone. Just do your bloody job." He'll say something to Texas, make sure it doesn't go any farther. This was a stupid fucking idea. He yanks the door open and heads in, grinding his teeth, hoping someone picks a fight early. He could use a good fight tonight.
