::.. Witlingville ..::

In French, I am told, they call this sort of thing l'art merdique. Or, "crap art."

Prawnverse part 9

"He's reliable." Texas doesn't ask a lot of questions; mostly he just says things, and if you want to argue the point, you do it carefully. Spike nods. "He knows what he's getting into." Spike nods again, and puts a careful finger out to prod one of Texas's sets of teeth. "Don't touch that." Got eyes in the top of his head, Texas does. Maybe not literally. Or maybe.

"He's perfect," Spike says, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning away from the shelves before he can tell for sure whether any of those teeth are vampire. "Quiet, bright. Not too bright. Knows from demons. Keeps his mouth shut."

"Lives with you," Texas says. He's doing ledgers, got his green eyeshade on, one big finger running down the page while he talks. Bit like Angelus, in some ways. Except for the scales.

"Stays with me," Spike amends. "Got his own room."

There's silence except for the rasp of the adding machine, while Texas finishes the column. Then he puts the pencil down neatly in the spine of the book and folds it closed. "Got his own room," he repeats, looking up. Unfair advantage, not having pupils. Makes it hard to read any expression in his face. He temples his fingers and waits.

"He's an old...acquaintance," Spike says, seeing he has to explain further. "Saw him holding up a wall on the east side, thought I'd do him a favor. Help him find his feet."

"Find his feet," Texas breathes. Still staring. Spike holds out another few seconds, then fishes for his cigarettes and shakes one out irritably.

"All right, look. He's a stupid little twat I used to hate, and now I'm fucking him. Want him to have a job, somewhere I can keep an eye on him. You tell anyone I said that and I'll�" He flicks the Zippo and drags deeply so he doesn't have to finish that sentence. Threatening Texas isn't a good idea. "You happy now?"

Texas just sits there, and Spike rams his cigarettes back into his pocket and raises his hands out from his sides, a what do you want from me? gesture. "You need a busser."

After a moment, Texas inclines his head just a fraction. "True," he says. "Call him in here."

Spike goes to the door, opens it, and leans out into the hall. "Harris!"

Xander's behind the bar, watching with his hands at his sides while the bartender holds up each and every kind of glass and tells him what it's for. When Spike shouts, they both look around. The green light over the bar makes Xander's face look thin and young. Makes the bartender look puce. Spike jerks his hand at Xander, who turns immediately and comes down the hall to him.

"Keep quiet," Spike mutters to him, standing aside so he can go inside the office.

Texas is a pretty awesome sight for anyone to take in for the first time, much less a human kid who probably hasn't seen even a little ogre before. Texas is a big one, size of a small sofa on end, and he's got those snake-black eyes of his already turned, watching. It's meant to be unnerving, and it is. When Xander sees what's waiting there behind the desk for him he sort of hitches and almost stops walking, seems ready to turn right back around and walk out. Spike doesn't even think about it, just puts a hand out. Going to touch him on the waist, the small of his back, just to keep him settled and okay, remind him he's not alone, he's reasonably safe. Crazy thing to do, and he drops his hand as soon as he realizes it's out, but not fast enough that Texas doesn't see it.

Xander swallows, gets his bearings, and walks the rest of the way into the room on his own. He looks small in front of Texas's desk, and he keeps his head down, his eyes on the floor.

"You're Spike's friend." Texas is interested; Spike can hear it in his tone. Xander nods. "You want a job."

Pause. "Yeah." It doesn't sound too convincing.

"You ever worked in a bar before?"

Xander looks up briefly, and his eyes flick quickly to Spike, then back to Texas. "No," he says. Smart enough not to lie.

"You know what kind of people drink here?"

"Yeah."

Silence, and after a few seconds Xander lifts his eyes and looks at Texas straight on. Texas just sits there, his hands folded neatly on top of the closed ledger. Spike chews his lip and directs radio mind waves at Texas to hurry the fuck up, say it's all right, don't be such a prick for once.

"Spike," Texas says, without looking away from Xander. "You're on the door tonight, aren't you?"

"Yeah." He drags on his cigarette, and there's a pause, and then he realizes that Texas means now, go get on the door right now. Leave. He looks at Xander, who's looking back at him, big dark eyes starting to flood with fear. Oh, fuck. "Right, yeah. I'll show Harris the lockers on the way." Xander gives him a look of pure, doglike relief and takes a step toward him, and Texas raises a hand.

"He can stay." Xander freezes, really panicked now, and Spike clears his throat.

"Look, Texas, maybe I was a bit unclear about what he's here for - "

"No," Texas says. "You weren't unclear. You're fucking him, you want him to have a job." He turns his head and gives Spike that black, level look. "That's clear."

"I just meant - "

"I'm not a faggot, Spike." He says it mildly, reaches up and snaps the green shade off his head. "I'm not going to touch him. Now, unless you think I'm unclear on tonight's schedule, you need to go get on the door."

Spike just stands there for a second, trying to decide what to do. If he didn't have the soul, of course, he'd be over the desk and elbow-deep in Texas's ribcage by now, but if he didn't have the soul he'd have been that ages ago. He glances at Xander, who's still staring at him, vibrating almost, smelling like barely suppressed terror. Never should have brought him here.

"Okay," he says. "I'll do that, then." He pinches his cigarette out and palms the end, rubs the back of his neck, then nerves himself up and takes two quick steps over to where Xander's standing. Kisses him quickly on the lips, before either of them can think about it. All he gets is a moment of warmth, a second or two of Xander's skin and fear and toothpaste. Then he turns on his heel and stares straight into Texas's swampy black eyes. Standing between them, even if he's the smallest one in the room.

Texas smiles slightly. "Go on, Spike," he says. "I just want to talk to him."

"I'll see you on break," Spike says over his shoulder to Xander, and leaves without looking back.

He's savage with the clientele, rips up three fake IDs in the first two hours. All the time feeling warm lips against his own, that slight trembling push that seemed to say take me with you.

"Go all right?" He's rooting in his locker for his car keys, the roll of bills he dropped in there earlier. The break room's empty except for the two of them. Xander's sitting propped against the wall by the door, his eyelids heavy, his hands hanging loose and slack in front of him. He was there already when Spike came in, after the last drink he couldn't stop Bitte pouring him. The rest of them are still out there, leaning on the bar, chewing limes and quartered voles and drinking Jagermeister. Someone's lit a joint, by the smell of it.

Xander's nodding, though he might just be falling asleep. "Fine," he says after a second.

"Get a break?" He'd caught a few glimpses of Xander during the night. Mostly on the far side of the room, carrying crates of glasses, keeping close to the walls. No sign of him in the break room when Spike was in, around two. He just shrugs. So, no break.

"Texas give you any trouble?" That's the real question, that's what he's been thinking about, off and on, most of the night. He keeps a careful, sideways eye on Xander as he asks, but Xander doesn't look troubled. He actually looks fairly indifferent, and he shrugs again.

"No."

In some ways, Xander was less of a pain in the ass when he talked more.

"What did he want to say to you?" Spike asks, speaking clearly and slowly.

"Just...he just wanted more details. About how you know me."

"About how I know you."

"Yeah."

"And you told him what, exactly?"

"That I used to hang out with the Slayer, and you used to try to kill us, and now you have a soul and I needed a place to stay." Xander's eyes are on his hands, and then he yawns and covers his face momentarily with his palms. "Jesus, I'm tired."

"You told him about the Slayer?"

"Yeah." Xander braces himself against the wall and heaves to his feet. "He could have found out anyway."

"That's no reason to bloody tell him."

Xander just stands there, looking tired, and Spike realizes his own tone's gone shrill. He eases back onto his heels. "Not that I give a rat's arse."

Xander nods, and then seems to remember something. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a crumpled bill. When he unfolds it, Spike sees it's a fifty. Xander folds it along its length and twitches it slightly, showing it off. A faint, distracted smile on his lips.

"How'd you make that?" The shrill's back in his tone, he realizes, and again he has to lower his weight off his toes. Dammit, he can't say he doesn't give a rat's arse - he just said that. He's getting transparent.

"Just - " Xander doesn't seem to notice Spike's tone; he's staring at the bill, flicking it back and forth. "Some guy had me run a drink order, told me to keep the change." He pauses. "Bitte said it was okay."

"Bitte's not the boss."

"No."

"If Texas thinks you're working the place, he'll pound your head into your pelvis."

"Right." Xander studies the bill a second longer, then holds it out, arm's-length, so it's almost brushing Spike's chest. "Here."

"What?" Spike just stares.

Xander waggles the bill. "Take it."

"Don't want it." He can't keep the edge out of his tone now; he wants to step away, but there isn't room to go around Xander to the door, and he doesn't want to back up. "Keep it, it's yours."

Xander lets his hand fall, but when Spike moves to walk past him, out of the room, he raises it again. Just to waist level, just barring the way. "Earlier," he says. "In Texas's office, when you kissed me."

Spike stands frozen, waiting for the rest. That's not a question. It's not even a complete sentence. He can't be expected to say anything to that. Xander's face is tired and sober, and his eyes are very dark. They stare at each other for a few seconds.

"Thank you," Xander says. His voice is quiet. Then he glances down at the bill in his hand, and Spike sees there's bitterness in his expression too. He reaches out and tucks the folded bill gently into the waist of Spike's jeans. Like threading it through a stripper's G-string. His fingers are momentarily warm against Spike's belly, through his shirt.

"For services rendered," he says, and smiles as if it's a joke.