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As usual, unedited, unbetaed, and mislabeled as prawn. When in fact it contains only cuttlefish and pollock. Not the nice parts of the pollock, either.
Prawnverse part 11
When he wakes up that evening the flat's silent and his face is stuck to the pillow. He's bled more during the day, apparently. And he hasn't moved from the position he fell down in: flat on his belly, arms and legs wide, still wearing one boot. Bit pathetic, really. Good thing he closed the door first; last thing he needs is Harris wandering in for a look-see at a time like this.
He pries the gory pillowslip off his face, rolls over, and assesses. His face is singing a high, curdled soprano, and his neck feels stiff too. Definitely went to the bone. And for the first time he thinks about what Bitte said on the way back - Yoo koot haff lost un eye - and winces. Never tried regrowing an eye before. Not completely sure it'd work. The bar job seems suddenly like a stupid, useless thing to be doing, the kind of thing he never should have stooped to. It pays the bills. He shouldn't have bills - he's a vampire. He can walk up walls, for God's sake. He misses rooftops.
He closes his eyes, sighs, and gently palms the stitches. They itch; they'll have to come out soon. Sitting up makes him groan. Feels like he's been hit with the broad side of a wall, all over. It's just a little glass in the face. When did he turn into such a nance, exactly?
He turns to get up, thinking with some small fraction of his brain about the poof, out there helping the helpless with his swirly coat and mammoth head, and charging them for it, so maybe he's onto something after all - and sees a bottle of Tylenol on the night table, next to his cold mug of blood. Wasn't there when he came in this morning. For a second he can't process it at all, and then he realizes what it means. Xander must have come into the room at some point while he was asleep.
He puts out a hand and picks up the bottle. Not his; he doesn't have alcohol, doesn't have Tylenol. Never thinks of the stuff, even though once or twice he's been given pills and they've worked. Vampires don't take painkillers. The bottle feels about half full; the pills rattle inside as he turns it.
He stands up with the bottle in his hand, waits a second for his balance to come back, then realizes he's shirtless. Didn't think anything of it last night, but somehow knowing that Xander came in and saw him like that, asleep like that, makes him feel strange. Embarrassed, almost. That's stupid. He's turning into a neurotic twit, he needs to go back to fucking the kid and calling it rent and full stop, right there.
"Bloody tenant," he mutters, and digs for a shirt in his drawers.
Out in the kitchen, he can hear the flat's empty. There's a smell of fresh laundry, and the week's accumulation of dirty mugs and plates is all washed up and draining on the board. He shuffles to the fridge, pops a blood bag, and sits down at the table with a mug. The newspapers are boring. After a few minutes he flips the Tylenol bottle open and takes a few. Why not.
He's been sitting there about ten minutes, rubbing at a bit of dried blood on the leg of his jeans and putting up with the pain in his face and wondering if Xander's gone walkabout with his little hooker friends, when he hears feet come up the stairs. Xander's feet; no point pretending he can't tell that by now. He finds himself straightening up like a suitor and only just manages to slouch back down before the key's in the lock and the door is opening.
Xander comes in carrying a couple of shopping bags, walking quietly. The kitchen's dark, Spike realizes; he should clear his throat or something so the kid knows he's there. But he doesn't, he just sits there and watches while Xander puts his keys silently down on the counter, pulls his windbreaker off, and rubs his hands over his face. He looks distracted, a little tired. Spike remembers the laundry; probably means Xander didn't sleep well. Hard to think why.
Xander puts the bags on the counter and starts taking things out - milk, bread, a box of Weetabix - then seems to realize he's working in the dark, and flicks the light on with the back of his hand. Spike squints in the glare, makes some little movement that's enough to catch Xander's eye, and suddenly they're staring at each other. Xander's face is surprised, then shocked.
"Oh - wow." He swallows. "Wow."
Spike frowns. "What?"
"That's...got to hurt." His eyes are fascinated, a little impressed, stuck on Spike's face. Spike pulls himself upright and grips the edge of the table. He's not a bloody circus attraction.
"Went shopping," he says, nodding at the bags. Xander's still staring at his face, still got that transfixed look, disbelief and sympathy. Spike looks away and pokes the pile of newspapers irritably with one finger. "Took a little change from my coat, did you?"
For a second Xander just looks baffled; then his face reddens and he shakes his head. "I got paid." He turns to put the milk away, and closes the fridge door harder than he has to.
"You can keep that," Spike says. "Don't have to use it for groceries."
"I eat," Xander says. "You don't. I'll buy my own food."
"Never going to save up like that."
"I don't need to save up."
"Keep your money. It's not like he's paying you enough to get by anyway."
"You get by."
"I don't eat." That's neat, satisfying; it makes him feel like he's just closed the lid on that conversation, even though he's not really sure what it was about. He's annoyed, edgy, looking for something to nitpick. He fiddles with the Tylenol bottle, then holds it up. "You came into my room."
Xander's putting boxes into the cupboard; he looks over, confused again. "What? Oh - " For a second or two he just stares at the red and white bottle in Spike's fingers, and it's like magic, Spike can see the dark anxious tremble start up in him. That watchful look, ready to spark up into fear if you look at him the right way, talk to him sharply enough. The mood Spike's in right now, he actually likes seeing it. He rolls the bottle in his fingers, so the pills click.
"You came into my room while I was asleep," he says, and now there's a little fear in the air. It's a sharp, acrid tickle and he likes it, he does. Xander should be afraid of him. Should remember that day he got tossed into the wall and stop toeing around playing nursemaid to a fucking vampire. "Don't remember inviting you in."
"I just thought you'd want - " Quiet voice, shoulders up around the ears. Good, that's how he should look.
"Come here." He points at the floor between his feet and Xander hesitates, one hand still clinging to the cupboard as if it's some kind of safe harbour. Spike tips his head and stares, and Xander lets go and walks quietly over to stand in front of him.
"Get down." He points at the floor again, for clarity's sake, and Xander stands with his hands loose at his sides, a hopeless look on his face. There are circles under his eyes, and he smells like fabric softener. Spike's stomach tightens, and he points again. Xander drops to his knees. "Look."
He turns away as if he's going to pull something from the newspapers, but it's just so he can go to game face with his expression hidden. Because it hurts. Pops a couple of stitches, actually, and is probably overall a really stupid thing to do right now, but he feels better for it. He never uses game anymore, except as a tawdry flash at the bar. Feels like showing his dick for a living, sometimes.
This hurts and feels realer, feels like something he's just remembering how to use, and it feels even better when he looks back down at Xander kneeling between his legs, and sees that he's scared. Shrinking away, lips pressed tight and fingertips finding the floor, like he wants to sink straight through it. Heart hammering. That's good. Things have been getting confused lately; it's time he straightened them out.
"I don't need these," he says, holding up the pills in one hand and then, while Xander stares, crushing the bottle. "Vampire, pet. Remember?"
Xander gapes, and Spike lets the bottle go, so it hits the floor with a hollow plastic clatter. Not as good an effect as breaking glass, but it'll do. No more chasing after Xander fucking Harris, hoping to make him laugh or quip or cry a single, perfect tear. No more giving a damn about what Xander's thinking and feeling and dreaming about at night. This has all gone on long enough, and he might have a soul but he's still a creature of the night. He's tired of this.
"All right then," he says, and he's about to say Now get those fucking clothes off when a drop of blood hits the linoleum beside his foot. They both notice it. Then a second one hits Xander's knee, and they both look at that. "What the - ?"
Xander looks up at him and frowns. "You're bleeding," he says, and reaches up gently to touch Spike's cheek. His fingers come away red and wet. "Hang on, I bought Bactine."
