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There's a master plan here, I promise. But also, it's sort of interesting just to see how long I can keep this up. Four to five pages of Sprawnder (TM _flaming_june_) every day for...many days. Still doesn't break down saussy's defenses. Saussy has serious mental reserves, man.
Anyway, I swear to God there's a plan. It's going places. Just not fast.
Have I mentioned yet that this stuff is unbetaed, unedited? And that when I use words twice in two sentences, it's because I'm tired and shiftless? I have? Okay. Consider that your disclaimer, then.
I also want to dedicate this section to fitofpique, because her icons make me laugh and laugh. Especially her Angel icons. "Kitty!" Ah, Fit. Comedy gold.
Oh, and readers of Paula Fox may notice a little thematic thievery. Heh. I have no shame. I am shame-free. But you knew that.
Prawnverse part 10
"Fucking hurts," he snaps, when Bitte tells him again to sit still.
"It'll hurt more if I stick this in your eye by mistake," she says, showing him the bloody needle. He scowls and keeps smoking. His hand's covered in blood, there's blood on the cigarette. He feels strangely shaken, almost embarrassed; even though he gets attacked pretty regularly at work, it's been ages since anyone actually hurt him. Last person to do that was Xander, snapping down on his inner thigh. And isn't that a pleasant memory.
Xander's there now, sunk down against the wall by the door where he always sits when he's waiting for Spike after his shift. He's wearing his white T-shirt, and there's a streak of blood down the front that must have come off Spike when he was being walked back here. It was all confused for a little while. Everyone was milling around with bar rags and advice, and somewhere back by the door one of the swamp crew was holding the guy up so Vincent could pummel him. Loud, messy. In the middle of all that, being hustled back here while Bitte harangued him, saying You could have lost an eye with her accent at full strength because she was upset - Yoo koot haff lost un eye - he'd caught a glimpse of Xander. His face white and shocked, staring at all the blood. Like he'd never seen blood before.
"You have to wash this when you get home," Bitte says, glancing away from her needlepoint down to the front of Spike's shirt. "Not with the other clothes, it'll stain." She pauses and looks back over her shoulder at Xander. "Yours too. Cold water right away, or it stains."
"Right," Spike says tightly, through his cigarette. "Will do. Mind finishing that up now, love?"
Bitte turns back to her stitching. "I don't know why I should, if you don't care enough about your face to do this to it."
"I didn't bloody do it. That wanker - " He starts to gesture back to the front of the bar, then gives up. She's just upset. His eye falls on Xander though, who's still sitting there, waiting, staring at his hands. His expression is strangely lost, almost confused. Spike takes the cigarette out of his mouth and says, "You all right?"
For a second or two Xander just sits there, his eyes fixed on his hands as if he's got some kind of puzzle there between his fingers. Then he wakes up and lifts his head, startled. "I'm fine."
"Don't have to watch. Go wait in the car if you want."
"I'm fine."
"You don't bloody look - "
"Stop talking," Bitte says, and stabs him with the needle. He growls.
When she's finally done with him the whole right side of his face feels hot and tight and sore. He brushes his fingers over it and feels the stiff prickle of the stitches.
"You'll be a movie star again next week," Bitte says, wiping her hands on a towel. "Prettier than the rest of us put together."
"Good," Texas says from the doorway. "That's why I hired him." He lowers one hand and passes an envelope down to Xander without looking at him. "First week's pay. Spike, you want a go at this asshole before we dump him?"
He probably should, for form's sake, but by the sound of it Vincent's doing a decent enough job and anyway, his neck's sore. Also, Xander looks ready to keel over. Spike shakes his head and Texas disappears. "Thanks, Bitte." She grabs his hand before he can pat the stitches again.
"Leave those alone. And he drives home." She's looking at Xander. "You drive."
"I can bloody drive."
"Your eye's swelling." She turns, opens Spike's locker, roots inside, and comes up with the keys, which she throws to Xander. "You drive, Piaf."
Xander catches the keys and jams the envelope into his back pocket. "You need anything from - ?" he says, standing up and starting for Spike's locker.
"I'm not fucking crippled." That comes out in a snarl, and he pauses to regroup. "Fine, you can bloody drive. Just to keep this harpy off my back."
"He'll need the stitches taken out tomorrow," she says to Xander, taking her own coat out of her locker. "Can you do that?"
Xander looks blank.
"I can do it," Spike says. "Come on, let's go."
"You can't see yourself," she says. "The boy can do it. Yes?"
"Sure," Xander says, not sounding sure at all. "Yeah, okay."
"I'll fucking do it," Spike growls. He's in a rotten mood again now, itchy and sore and generally pissed off. "Get stuffed, Bitte."
"And sleep properly, both of you."
"Sod off, you nosy bitch."
"Bye," Xander says uncertainly, and Bitte blows them a kiss, and then finally, finally, they're getting out. There's barely enough time to get home before light, so Spike propels them fast through the bar, where Vincent's still wiping down his knuckles with a rag, and some of the other bussers are hanging around debriefing.
"He's polenta," Vincent says over his shoulder as they walk by.
"Ta, Vin."
"Any time."
The DeSoto's parked in the alley right outside, but by the time they get there he's got to admit, Bitte was probably right. His eye's closing up and his head aches and he just wants to be home. Still, it's weird to go around to the passenger side of his own car. Xander seems to find it just as weird to be on the driver's side. He sits there for a second, just staring at the steering wheel and the pedals, as if he's not sure he remembers how to drive. Spike opens his mouth to ask, and Xander quickly turns the key, and they're off.
They don't talk at all in the car. Once he's sure Xander knows what the hell he's doing, Spike closes his eyes and checks out. He's tired, he doesn't feel like dealing with any of it. It's just a fucking job. He's pretty sure he felt the glass go in to the bone. But he'll be a movie star again next week, so there's no point dwelling.
The engine stops and he wakes up, startled to find they're already home, parked across the street from his building. The sky's dark blue, lightening to day. Xander's holding the keys in his hand, looking at him.
"Right," Spike says, to cover the fact that he was just asleep. His mouth feels strange and stiff, and his right eye's almost closed now. "Home."
Xander nods and keeps looking at him. He looks fascinated and also appalled. Spike puts his hand out, palm up, and Xander just stares at it mutely.
"Keys," Spike says after a second. Xander gives him the keys, and they get out without another word. Spike leads the way up to the flat, and has to stab the lock a few times with the key before it fits right. Someone's tied lead sinkers to his arms and legs. He drops the keys on the counter, drops the duster on the floor, and starts for the fridge.
"I'll do it." Xander gets between him and the fridge somehow, and pulls out a blood bag. "You want to take a shower?"
"I - no." He stands there in the middle of his kitchen watching Xander pour blood into a mug, feeling useless and irritated and tired. "No, I want to fucking eat something and go to bed. To sleep." He has no idea why he says that, except that for some reason he thought he had to make it clear he didn't want company this morning. He didn't have to say that, it was stupid. He remembers Bitte's advice and yanks his shirt off over his head, catching the stitches. "Fucking hell."
"Here." Xander helps him get it off, then looks at his face and frowns. "You should put ice on it, maybe."
"I should go find that miserable fuck and ram a Tom Collins through his cheek, see how he likes it."
"You're bleeding again. Just a little." Xander's fingers are light and cool on his cheek, dabbing. Behind him, the microwave dings. "Do you have alcohol or something?"
"I'm fine. I just need a kip - " Xander's turning away, popping the microwave open, turning back and pushing the mug into Spike's hands. "Thanks. Look - "
But Xander's walked out, and Spike can hear him rummaging in the bathroom, running water in the sink. He stops in his own room on the way back, and when he reappears he's wearing a different shirt. The bloody one must be soaking in the sink with Spike's. For some reason, the thought of Xander washing a sink full of bloody shirts makes Spike feel miserable. He's exhausted, he just needs to sleep, he'll be fine.
"You don't have alcohol," Xander says, as if alcohol were electricity.
"Don't need it," Spike says. "Going to bed now."
"I think you need to - "
"Going to bed now," he says again, and closes the conversation by walking away from it. His bedroom's dark and quiet and the pillows are cool against his face. He'll be fine when he wakes up. He can take the stitches out by touch.
