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Prawnverse part 17
They go to work. Half an hour before opening, Spike's getting his float from the bartender and Xander's at the far end of the bar, unloading glasses. Texas appears. God knows how he does it, must have trapdoors everywhere. Spike doesn't look up, just keeps counting fives and tens and twenties, and Texas pauses in front of him for just a second, as if giving him a chance to say something if he wants to. He doesn't. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Texas walks down to Xander's end of the bar.
"You were sick." It's just an observation, but Texas has a way of making observations sound a lot like threats. Xander's hands falter, hesitate, then keep racking glasses.
"I'm better."
A pause, while Texas studies the top of Xander's head. Spike loses count of his tens and has to start over, frowning.
"You get sick a lot?"
"No."
Another pause, and then Texas reaches down with one hand, size of a catcher's mitt, and Xander flinches. Spike looks up sharply, fuck the tens, but Texas is just pushing Xander's face to one side. Looking at his neck. Both sides. Spike stands frozen, his hands numb, his head throbbing, breathing like an idiot. Xander keeps his eyes down and waits it out. After a few seconds, Texas looks back over his shoulder, directly at Spike.
"Okay," he says, letting go of Xander's chin. "Don't cough in anyone's drink."
Xander goes straight back to the glasses, and Texas slopes off to his office, closing the door behind him. Spike stands there with his hands full of bills, staring at nothing, shaking slightly. Not even sure what's pissing him off so badly, because it's not like he's really above it.
"You can't blame him," Bitte says in his ear, pulling a tray from the holder beside him. "The last thing he needs is a dead human on his hands."
From there, the night pretty much goes downhill. It's not even midnight when the little brown-haired bint shows up, glaring and flashing a hundred dollar bill like she's got more where that came from. Wearing some kind of cheap silvery top, might be sexy on a woman who weighed more than eighty pounds and didn't look like she wanted to kill him.
"Keep it," he says, when she pushes the bill at him. She opens her mouth to start in and he holds up his hand, unchains the door, and pushes it open for her.
She just stands there staring, her mouth hanging open, like he's told her she's the lucky millionth customer and would she like the cash prize or the holiday. Then she looks past him through the door, into the black pulse of noise, and her face falls slightly. She's ridiculously young, he realizes. Probably younger than Xander and Buffy, that whole lot. She looks a little awestruck, more than a little scared.
"Go on," he says, making a hurry up gesture with his free hand. She looks back at him, and her eyes narrow slightly. Suspicious. Good.
"You're letting me in."
"Trying to, yeah. Want to move it along, love?"
"Why?"
"Well, the door's heavy, for one thing—"
"No, why are you letting me in?"
"Because you're a bloody pest."
"Oh." She studies the door again, then firms her lips, tucks the hundred firmly back into her sluttish little purse, and steps forward. He waits till she's on the threshold, then catches her arm, leans in with her, and puts his mouth to her ear. She's edgy, startled. Probably a second away from macing him.
"Don't talk to anyone else," he says, loud enough that she can hear it over the music. "Understand?" She hesitates, then nods. "Don't cruise in here, love. Say hello and off you go. Right?" She hesitates a second longer, then nods again. "Right, have fun."
He lets go, lets her spin off his hand into the crowd like a fish released into moving water, and steps back outside. It's cold and quiet and bright on the step, after even just a few seconds in the bar. Christ, Xander spends all night in that din. God knows if she'll even be able to find him, or if they'll even be able to hear each other if she does.
"No fucking way," he tells the gargoyle hovering hopefully on the bottom step. "Now piss off before I come down there and break your stony fucking neck myself."
They close at four, and by four thirty he's cashed out, drunk a quick hard shot with Vincent, and heading for the break room for his things. Hasn't seen Xander all night, not that that's unusual. Didn't see the girl leave, but most people leave by the back door, so that's normal too. Still, there's a part of him that's thinking he's going to go in there and see Xander's locker cleared, find out nobody's seen him since midnight. Stupid to let her in in the first place.
He's actually surprised when he opens the break room door and Xander's in there. Sitting slumped on the bench with his coat on, hands hanging down between his knees, while Bitte rubs the back of her neck with a towel and talks to him about pastries.
"Strudel," she says, glancing up as Spike comes in. "I miss that, nobody can make a proper strudel here. And kuchen, apple kuchen."
"America is a land of donuts," Xander says wearily, not looking up. "Donuts and donut holes, that's about it." He pauses. "Well, fritters."
Bitte makes a face and throws her towel in her locker. "Proper food. You need more soup, Piaf. Heart makes you strong, nettle makes you piss."
"Plus, they taste memorable."
"Tell Spike you need more soup."
Xander raises his head and looks at Spike. His eyes are glassy and shot with red. "Bitte says- "
"I heard." Spike goes to his locker, opens it with a bang, and yanks out his coat. For some reason he's annoyed, even though just a minute ago he was afraid Xander had left, afraid he'd done something stupid enough to let him leave. Bitte makes a chiding sound behind her teeth, and pulls her own jacket on.
"Soup," she says, giving Spike a knowing glance. "And sleep. He needs both."
"Jawohl," he mutters into his locker. She goes out and lets the door bang behind her.
"Right," Spike says, turning around with the keys in his fist, half his brain still fixed on the girl, whether she found Xander and what she said if she did, whether she made it out after. Not that he cares. "You all set to- "
Xander doesn't stand up, but he reaches one hand out and catches hold of Spike's belt, right above his fly. Spike stands still, a little startled, looking down at Xander's fingers against his belly. "What are you- "
Xander pulls, and when Spike doesn't step forward, he slides neatly off the bench onto his knees between Spike's legs. Leans forward, presses his mouth to Spike's crotch, and breathes out warmth. Eyes closed, palms running up the inside of Spike's thighs. So apparently she found him after all.
"Jesus Christ," Spike says, getting a hand on Xander's shoulder and shoving him back. Firmly, but not sharply. Xander's eyes spring open, and his gaze hooks on Spike's face. Glazed, black, pupils full as moons. Lips apart. He'd be fine to do it right here, on the floor of the locker room. Jesus Christ.
"Not here," Spike says quietly, his hand still on Xander's shoulder. He doesn't want to let go for some reason, and not just because of the sex. There's something else there between them, some little spark, there has to be. He did something right, found something Xander wanted. That has to be a good thing.
"Where?" Xander asks, not missing a beat. Jesus Christ.
"Come on," he says, pulling Xander to his feet and pushing him out the door with a hand on his elbow. The car's parked in the alley, it's still dark out there. God knows they've both had worse.
