::.. Witlingville ..::

Notes: In other words, more Sprawn. For those new to this venture, it's S/X, AU, and has been going on way too long already. Blessed be the commenters. I respect and treasure you even if I don't write back right away.

Prawnverse part 16

The flat's quiet when he gets home, and when he walks past Xander's door to the bathroom he hears the same deep, unhurried breathing that he left behind ten hours ago. Kid's out like a light. He's tempted to go in anyway, just to sit and listen, maybe finish sorting those albums he doesn't give a damn about, but that's stupid. He goes down the hall and washes up.

On the way back, he opens Xander's door and goes in anyway, because he's unpredictable like that.

Xander's laid out on his side, soft face, pearled skin, fingers loose and open. The soup bowl's on the night stand. Albums all over the floor. It's a still life, the blue dawn just starting to seep in and touch things, and everything in the room is crap except Xander, who's beautiful. For the first time in a long time, Spike doesn't mind being immortal.

He undoes his jeans for comfort's sake, pulls the curtains tighter, and gets in at the bottom of the bed, between Xander and the wall. The cot protests, and Xander gives a low, querying sigh. Spike shuffles over, gets an arm around his waist. Warm.

"Go back to sleep," he says quietly, and kisses the back of Xander's neck. Smells like clean laundry, vanished sweat. Xander hovers a minute, his body trying to work up the energy for tension, and then just slips right back down the slope. Warm and loose and pliant. Spike shoves a little closer, buries his head between Xander's shoulder blades, and drifts.

He dreams Xander's kissing him, mouth and neck and chest and so on down, until finally his tongue is on Spike's cock, lips around the head, and it's fucking amazing, better than the first night even and all because he can still feel Xander's mouth on his. Because Xander kissed him. He's grinning like an idiot, reaching down to touch Xander's head, saying stupid things out loud. He's happy. He's going to come.

He wakes up and realizes he has no imagination, because Xander's mouth is on his cock and his own hand is already down there, fingers in the kid's hair. Hot and sweat-damp, right on the edge. Xander's holding his hip with one hand, got the other one under him, expert touches. His shoulders are shaking a little. Shouldn't let this go, it's a bad idea, wasn't why he came in here in the first place.

He comes hard, messy, his hips snapping up savagely. His hands yanking at Xander's head. Trying to get deeper, trying to get inside.

When Spike's done, Xander wipes his face and then just rolls sideways and collapses down at hip level. He's sweaty and hot, breathing hard, eyes closed. Face unreadable. Spike lies still, studying him. Trying to tell how much he dreamed, how much was real.

"Feeling better," he says. Xander makes a mm sound without opening his eyes. Spike puts a hand down and runs it through Xander's hair, close to his scalp. Wet, silky. "Did you- ?" He feels like an idiot, having to ask. If Xander says no, what then? More embarrassment.

Xander doesn't follow it up, thank God. His lips part and he sinks away into sleep without saying a thing.

When Spike wakes up next he's alone again. The shower's running, the soup bowl's gone. He sits up slowly, rubs a hand over his head, then thinks to do up his jeans. Xander's clothes are all shoved to one corner of the room, and his backpack's been put away somewhere.

In the kitchen, Spike balances on two bare feet and drinks a long, warm mug of blood. It's five thirty in the afternoon, be time to go back to work again in a few hours. He feels loose and light and better than he has in ages.

The shower shuts off while he's staring at cans of soup in the cupboard. He can hear Xander messing around in there, towelling off and shaving and whatever the hell else, making the little necessary sounds he's made for months without Spike noticing. He doesn't even really notice now. He just hears them somewhere in the back of his mind while he takes a can of bouillon down and empties it into a saucepan, puts the heat on, and walks away to find the newspaper. They're good sounds, after two days of deadly silence. If he wanted to live in a crypt he would. Still.

He reads headlines, thinks about Bitte's Piaf, considers a cigarette but doesn't light one, and when he hears Xander go back down the hall to the bedroom, gets up and pours some of the bouillon into a mug. Leaves it on the counter for him and goes back to the newspaper.

Xander comes in after a couple more minutes, wet-headed and smelling of soap. He looks thinner than ever, as if two days in the world and one in bed have pulled ten pounds off him. Maybe they have. His jeans are loose and low. He goes to the fridge without saying anything, opens it, and stands spectating.

"Soup right there," Spike says, looking back down at the paper. He feels weirdly jumpy all of a sudden. Nervous, even. He needs to find his cigarettes.

Xander looks around at him blankly, one hand still propped on the refrigerator door, as if Spike's just asked him if he has the society section.

"Soup," Spike says, concentrating on the newspaper. "On the counter."

Xander twists his head around further and looks at the mug behind him. There's a brief silence, and then he closes the refrigerator, steps back, and stares into the mug. Spike lifts his head and watches. Xander studies the soup for a couple of seconds, then picks it up and carries it over to the kitchen table. Sets it down in front of Spike and starts to walk back to the fridge.

"'s not bloody well for me," Spike snaps. "It's for you. Nitwit."

Xander pauses, turns back, and studies him. His eyes are black and cool, but there's a slight amused curl at the corner of his lip.

"Thanks," he says, sounding just a bit surprised.

"Yeah, you're welcome. Smells fucking disgusting." He prods it away with one finger, and Xander picks it up and carries it back to study the refrigerator some more. For a few minutes Spike tries to read an article about an exploded sperm whale.

"How you feeling?" he asks finally, rattling pages.

"All right."

Silence. Xander takes a container of yogurt out of the fridge and turns it slowly in one hand, trying to find a date on it. Spike watches out of the corner of one eye.

"Still got a fever?"

"Nah."

What did you do in Sunnydale, exactly? He doesn’t ask that; he pats his pockets and remembers he left his cigarettes in his locker at work. Fuck.

"Touch and go there for a while. Had to call Bitte over."

"Bitte?" For a second Xander looks confused; then his face clears. "Bitte was here?"

"Last night. Sadistic little bint, made you drink bull piss."

"Bull- ?" Xander's face is troubled, uncertain.

"Got you back on your feet, didn't it?"

Xander puts the yogurt carefully back into the fridge and closes the door. "I guess," he says faintly, setting his mug down.

"She also slapped a cold towel on you. Tried to talk her out of it, but- "

Xander's looking at him oddly. "That was you."

"Right, well, it was her idea."

"I remember that. It hurt."

"Well." For some reason Spike can't think of anything to say to that. It's something about Xander's tone, which is matter-of-fact, no grudge in it at all. His expression is distracted, as though he's trying to remember what else might have gone on. "Wasn't really bull piss," Spike mutters after a minute, rubbing his thumb.

"Good." Xander turns away again, goes over to the couch, and picks up the remote. Spike watches him flick on the television, mute it, and sink down onto the carpet to flick through channels.

"How come you don't ever sit on the couch like a normal person?"

Xander shrugs and says nothing, flicking. It's as though he hasn't really heard what Spike's said, or has just heard enough to know he doesn't really need to pay attention or answer. Spike frowns.

"You coming to work tonight?"

Xander nods. Again, not really making it past the anvil and stirrup. Spike licks a spot of blood absently off one knuckle.

"Come here," he says after a second. Perverse, but he can't help it.

Xander looks over, a little surprised for a tick, then not surprised at all. He kills the television, stands up, and walks over. Drops to his knees on the linoleum in front of Spike without waiting to be asked.

"Look- " Spike says, already bracing himself. We need to have a talk about some things. When you were sick... Or maybe When you were gone... He's not sure. He doesn't have a chance to think about it, because Xander's leaning forward, running his hands up Spike's thighs to his crotch, popping the button on his fly. His eyes are black and flat, his mouth wet already.

Spike jerks back and grabs Xander's wrists. "Wait, hang on. Not doing this right now."

Xander goes still and looks at him. "What are we doing, then?"

"Just talking. We need to talk. And don't bloody bite me for saying it this time, either—"

Xander leans back on his heels, and Spike lets go of his wrists. "We don't talk," Xander says flatly.

"Right, no, that's the point. Maybe we should."

"Spike." Xander leans forward, as if he's going to impart a secret, but he's just getting up off the floor. When he's standing, looking down, he still looks small somehow. Small and bored and hollow. "I pay rent here. That's all I do."

"So pay it by talking."

"Fuck off."

"Well, that's a start at least. Just—" He lapses, can't think what to say next. "Look, just sit down and have a bloody conversation, is that so hard?"

Xander's face hasn't changed. "I pay rent," he says again. "You can take that out of me any way you want, it doesn't matter. But I don't have to have a conversation about it."

Spike sits silently, folding and unfolding one corner of the paper between his fingers. On the far side of the room, the stove clock ticks over to six fifteen.

"You shouldn't go in to work tonight," he says finally, staring at the picture of the dead whale on the pavement. "Take another night, get some sleep."

Xander turns away and goes back to the floor and the silent television. Spike stares at whale guts. Stupid.