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Prawnverse part 18
The little brown-haired tart keeps coming back, two or three nights a week, you'd think she didn't have a job to go to. And for some reason he keeps letting her in. He's got no idea why except that somewhere behind him, in the dark booming bar, it makes Xander happy. Stupid; he should have found something Xander liked that wasn't warm and female and liable to suggest one-way trips to somewhere else. But for the moment it's the best he's got, so when she shows up he doesn't say anything, doesn't even look her in the eye properly, just unchains the door and holds it open without a word. She slips in fast, before he can change his mind. Not stupid.
He starts taking his breaks in the bar, holding up the walls, instead of in the alley or the breakroom, where it's quieter. He smokes a cigarette and drinks some blood and keeps an eye on Xander. Who is never talking to the tart, strangely enough. He just works, head down and crate on his hip, hoovering glasses off tables and the bar till he's got a full load, then hoisting the whole thing up over his head and back through the swing doors to the swamp. He's getting big hands, cords in his forearms. Must have tired the hell out of him, the first couple of days back after he was sick. The brown-haired tart makes a Coke last an hour at a little table against the wall. When Xander passes they smile at each other. When she stands up to leave, he cuts across the room to balance the crate on her little table and hug her. It's too loud to talk; at most, she yells something into his ear, and he nods, and that's it. She's out the back door with her purse clamped under her elbow, and he's collecting her glass.
The first time Xander noticed Spike propped against his wall, he looked startled, almost afraid. Now he just passes by with a quick sideways look, the usual look, the one that means he's just using the basic radar to see if Spike wants anything from him. Spike tries to look like he always takes his breaks in the bar, like he's enjoying the music. The bloody awful fucking music.
He needs a new job.
He's considering that over a blood and tan one tartless Thursday night, wondering if Bitte's right, if the circus is really the next step and if the poof's detective agency counts as centre ring, and if he can possibly walk the high wire for that bastard again. Everything in him recoils at the thought, but he can't carry on here, it's ridiculous. He's a bouncer, for God's sake. And Xander can't keep working at a bloody demon bar. The poof could give him something useful to do, something with some dignity and maybe benefits. Office work, maybe. Or building things - didn't he build things, back in Sunnydale?
He lifts his head to drink and sees Xander and someone else on the far side of the bar, heads bent together over something in their hands. Not the tart--she's not here tonight. They're half-hidden behind the wall, and it takes a second for his eyes to understand that it's one of the other bussers. Feeding Xander a bump off the end of a matchstick.
He drops his glass onto the table beside him and shoves through the crowd. For once he can't hear the music at all, can't hear anything. By the time he gets over to them the match is gone, the little packet's disappeared. Xander's leaning back on his heels, scrubbing his nose and mouth with his palm, reaching clumsily for his crate with his free hand. He doesn't see Spike until too late, until Spike's put a hand on his arm and stopped him from going anywhere. Then his heart goes through the roof.
The other kid's new, just some random dipshit with big blue eyes and pinpoint pupils and a high-pitched giggle that he turns on Spike like it's all a joke. Not bright. Not reliable. Not getting it.
Xander's got it right away, even though he's riding the rocket straight up. He hooks his hand through the crate of glasses he was supposed to be carrying, then just stands there staring at the floor with big blotto eyes and his heart going racehorses. Waiting. Spike glances at him, then turns a tight smile on the other idiot.
"What's all this, then?" He has to say it loud so they can hear him, but he keeps it civil. The blue-eyed fuckwit grins and shrugs.
"Spike, my man. My man." He picks up his own crate and nods at Xander. "All work and no play, right?"
Spike puts his other hand out and takes hold of the idiot's bicep. Harder than he's holding onto Xander's arm; hard enough to hurt. He doesn't have the chip anymore, after all. "What's your name?"
"Spike, Ron, Spike. That hurts."
"Right. Ron, if you ever give Xander drugs again, I'll rip you into little bits and FedEx you back to Tarzana. Got it?" He squeezes harder. Really hard. Ron's eyes go wide, and he sucks in air. Going to have to carry the crate with the other arm for the rest of the night. Going to have black bruises.
"Jesus Christ, Spike - " He's nodding, tripping over his words. "Fuck, all right, I didn't know - "
"Well." Spike lets go and gives him a little pat on the shoulder. "Now you do." Ron gives him a baffled, frightened look and tries to go, but Spike grabs him by the collar and yanks him back. "What was that, anyway?"
"Just meth, it's cool - "
"Fuck off now, Ron." He lets go and Ron disappears into the crowd. Which leaves him with his hand still around Xander's arm, and Xander still attached, still staring down at the dirty glasses in his crate. Swallowing hard, blinking fast, but not trying to go anywhere. "You idiot."
Xander doesn't say anything, and Spike gets a hand under his chin and tips his face up. His eyes are bright, shiny, hyper-alert, the pupils shrunk to pencil dots. His heart's thundering. He smells scared and sweaty, and standing that close to him, Spike feels his fangs start to lower. He pushes Xander back a step and wipes his mouth. "Get back to fucking work, will you?"
Xander gives him a baffled look, hefts the crate, and starts to turn away. Then he turns slowly back. Frowning, repositioning. "It's not like you never-"
"Shut up," Spike snaps. "I'll deal with you later." Xander's shoulders go up, and he lowers his head, gets a surly bull terrier look, and Spike's fangs are itching, the press of blood-filled bodies all around is suddenly almost too much to stand. If Xander pushes it any farther he's going to get punched in the mouth. Or something else. And he can see that Xander's going to push it.
So he turns on his heel and walks fast back through the crowd, loses himself, and ends up in the back room with the lockers and a few quick shots of Jim Beam, onetwothree, just enough to keep him from ripping anything apart. Just enough to get him back out to the rope more or less on time, break over, time to punch back in. He doesn't see Xander again until they're closed, five and a half hours later. They get their coats out of their lockers and head to the car without a word.
"I'm sorry." Xander's slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs, legs spread wide, arms crossed sulkily over his chest. He's better at displaying himself now, Spike notices. He's more convinced he's got something to display, assets worth having. He's starting to look like a proper hustler - long-haired, spoiled, carelessly dressed. Sometimes it's incredibly fucking hot. Sometimes it makes you want to wring his neck.
"It was one hit," Xander says. "It wasn't a big deal."
"I'll tell you what's a big deal and what isn't." He's making tea at the counter by the stove, dunking the bag irritably with a teaspoon. The water isn't hot enough, and he hates using a mug. Without thinking, he says, "As long as you live here, you do what I tell you." Then he really wants to take it back, because when did he turn into Xander's bloody father?
Xander laughs, a sharp bitter little laugh, and for a second Spike can't really blame him. He's confusing himself, frankly. Why does he care if Xander does drugs? Well, it's illegal, and the last thing he needs is official scrutiny. And there's the soul. It's probably the stupid soul. He spoons the teabag out of the mug and flings it into the sink. The milk's gone bad. He misses proper tea.
"You start paying rent, you get to decide house rules," he says, dropping the spoon in after the teabag with a clatter. "Or go find somewhere else to doss. Maybe your friend Ron'll have you."
Xander takes that in, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I think," he says quietly, "that I pretty much pay my own way around here."
They stand there in silence for a few seconds, while Spike thinks seriously about throwing his mug into the wall.
Xander's mouth tightens, and he slides off the chair onto his knees on the linoleum. Seems to like that, kneeling like that - he does it enough. His eyes are black and big, emptied.
"You want an installment?" He settles back, rests his butt on his heels and his hands calmly, palm down, on his thighs. "Okay. I can do that."
"Get up."
"No, seriously. It's been, what, a couple of days? You should collect."
"Get up, you idiot."
"Come here." He just sits there staring, no emotion in his face, and after a few seconds Spike doesn’t want to be stared at anymore. He puts his mug down and walks over.
"Get up, wanker." He puts a hand out, but Xander leans around it and rests his forehead against Spike's thigh. It's surprisingly gentle. Spike stands there nonplussed, the anger shifting uncertainly and then somehow falling out of him, sand through a sieve. He reaches down and runs his fingers through Xander's hair. Nice to be able to touch him like this, without complications. Just heavy black curls falling through his knuckles, and the warmth of Xander's skin through his jeans. For a minute or two things are simple, almost good.
Then Xander's hands run slowly, lightly up Spike's legs, over his knees and up his thighs, the long muscles in front. Just his palms, just smoothing. He rolls his forehead and his cheek brushes Spike's crotch. Lightly, almost accidentally. Spike tightens the hand in Xander's hair, and opens his mouth to say That's enough. Opens his mouth but doesn't quite say it. Xander's lips brush the fly of his jeans. His fingers slide between Spike's legs, run over the trembling tendons, retreat. Spike stands still. He's hard already.
This is old, it's all familiar and depressing, how he can't help reacting even though he doesn't want it anymore. Hasn't wanted it in weeks. Or maybe he does; he can't tell, he just knows he wants something, and that this is all he gets, and that he feels like shit most of the time. And what the hell is it to Xander? His heart's sped up. When he lifts his face and shakes the hair out of his eyes, his cheeks are a little flushed. Big pupils. God, he has nice lips. And smiling a bit, like he's making all this up from scratch, just figuring it out for the first time. Pleased with himself. Pretty and smooth and hard as the tile in the underground gent's, and he didn't use to look like that at all.
Spike pets the hair gently back off Xander's forehead and wonders if he can bend down and kiss him. Wonders what would happen if he tried. He's afraid if he tries it he'll lose even this, this cagey flat promising smile up from between his legs. So he doesn't try. He stands very still and lets Xander open the button of his jeans, then pull the zipper down with slow tiny ticks. He doesn't want this. Shouldn't want it. Of course he wants it. Jesus.
He's so hard he has to close his eyes, can't watch Xander free his cock from his jeans with little nuzzles, forehead and cheek, his hands holding loosely to Spike's buttocks. Warm palms. God. In the last four months, Xander's sucked him off more times than he can count. Always good. Ever since that first night, the night on the couch, his first time - always good. He dreams about it. Takes Xander to bed with him, uses him up, crashes, and dreams incredible dreams about his cock in Xander's mouth, that sweet feeling he can't get enough of. In the best dreams, Xander doesn't just suck him off; he smiles and laughs and kisses him. Lies beside him and talks to him. He wakes up iron-hard from those, almost desperate.
He's that hard now, that close to the edge, just feeling Xander's breath on his cock, the skin of his thighs. He wants to knot a hand in Xander's hair or his shirt, actually get hold of him somehow, but if he does that it'll change. Be less gentle, less like his dreams. He keeps his hands at his sides and just takes it, lets Xander drive, lets it happen.
"We're quitting that place," he says quietly, watching Xander kiss the inside of his leg. "The bar. We're not - we're finding something else."
Xander slides his cheek along Spike's skin and gives him a considering look. "There isn't anything else," he says. "This is all there is."
