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Notes: Today's German term of belittlement thanks to anniesj and her link to Insultmonger. Thanks, Annie!
Prawnverse part 14
One hundred and four degrees isn't good, it turns out. In the bathroom, Bitte runs a towel under the cold water tap, folds it neatly in half, and smacks him in the head with it. Then she hands it to him. He takes it and just stands there, and she raises her hand to smack him again. He backs away.
"It's not for you, Dussel. It's for him." He stands watching her warily, and she pushes past him to go back down the hall. "He has a fever, you idiot. Put it on him."
"But he's cold." The towel's leaden and icy in his hands, and he thinks about Xander yanking the blanket up almost over his head. Bitte makes a hair-tearing gesture.
"Is he cold?"
"He feels—"
"Is he cold?" He's followed her down the hall, and they're at the door to Xander's room now. She looks in and frowns. "He looks hot to me."
"Right, technically, but -"
She smacks him in the back of the head and he growls. "Wait, let me see -" She grabs his chin and turns his face, surveys his cheek critically, then half-smiles and pats it. "You're a movie star again. Now put that on him." She shoves him through the door.
He stumbles in and stands there for a couple of seconds, holding the dripping towel. Xander hasn't moved; he's still facing the wall, still buried under the blankets, still smelling like combustion. Still shivering. Spike studies the towel, then nerves himself up, steps forward, and pulls the blankets back. Xander starts to twist around, one hand reaching, a look of confusion on his face.
"Sorry about this," Spike says, and drops the towel on him.
Xander's eyes go wide, and he tries to flip over, shake the towel right off. Spike pins him down with a hand on his shoulder.
"Jesus Christ," Xander gasps. His eyes are red-rimmed, very clear and sharp. His face is wet with sweat, and he's got his legs tangled in the sheets, can't get them free for leverage. He looks shocked. Beyond shocked. Betrayed. Spike tries to smile.
"You sure about this?" he calls over his shoulder. Bitte's doing something in the kitchen.
"Men are idiots!" she yells back.
"Just checking," he mutters, and gets his other hand on Xander's hip to hold him in place. Xander's panting, his face is drained white and he's writhing as well as he can, shaking all over. Not an unfamiliar look on him, but Spike hasn't seen it recently, and it's a little disconcerting just now. He sinks down beside the bed so he doesn't feel quite so much like he's drowning kittens.
"You're fine," he says in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. "Look, you've got a fever, it's so you'll get better -"
"I'm fucking freezing," Xander snaps. "Dickhead."
"Right, yeah, but technically -"
"Get it off."
"Sorry."
Xander's worked one hand up from under the blankets by now, and he wedges it under Spike's and starts trying to pry his way free. His fingers are hot and weak. "Motherfucker."
"See, you've got a fever -"
"Bite me. Get it off."
"Not my idea, believe me."
"Christ, I don't fucking believe this—" He works at Spike's fingers a few more seconds, then gives up and lies there shivering, his eyes closed, his jaw welded shut. Spike rests his elbows on the mattress. After a minute or two, he smoothes the towel over Xander's shoulder. The terry's room-temperature already.
Bitte's still in the kitchen, and somehow the sounds she makes in there—pots, the refrigerator, water running in the sink—make the rest of the place feel even emptier. Xander's breath is fast and throaty. He's turned his face away, to the wall, into the wet pillowslip. Spike stares at a lock of brown hair stuck to the back of his neck.
"You're a mess," he says absently, smoothing the towel some more. Just with his fingertips. Xander doesn't say anything. Bitte releases a low, irritable chain of German. "I'm sorry."
Xander still doesn't say anything, and Spike blinks, looks away, and finds himself staring at his albums. The boxes look shabby now, dusty and picked-over, and suddenly he's amazed that he's bothered to keep them. He can't think of a single record in there that he gives a damn about. And Xander could probably use the space.
He's got to do something about this situation, he realizes. It's stupid to keep pretending. Stupid and dangerous.
"Look," he says quietly. "When you're better, we need to have a talk. About...things." It feels as though Xander stiffens under his hands. "Not right now. But later. When you're up to it."
There's a long silence. Xander doesn't lift his head or open his eyes, and he doesn’t stop shivering. His tongue wets his lips.
"If you want," Spike says lamely, and uncertainly. Xander opens his eyes and lies staring at the wall. Sweat crawls down his temple.
"Talk," he says flatly, and Spike opens his mouth to say Yeah, you used to know how to do that - But there's a sound behind him, and when he turns, Bitte's in the doorway with a bowl in her hands.
"Heart and nettle soup," she says. "It will kill you or fix you, Piaf. Sit up."
