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Notes: For _flaming_june_, because I made her sad. Bear with me, honey.
drc1, long may she rock, has been collating the Sprawn. And thank god for the good doctor, because I haven't been keeping track of diddley. Bless you, drc1. Or Gesundheit, if you prefer. Heh.
Prawnverse part 20
Xander sleeps a couple more hours, and Spike wanders the flat in circles. He's restless, antsy, can't sit down for more than a few minutes at a time. He keeps picking things up and carrying them around with him, then putting them down when he realizes he's got them in his hands. Outside the blinds, the world's getting dark again.
He's in the bathroom holding a fork when he hears a low thump from his bedroom. Sounds like something's hit the wall, and he frowns and starts back down the hall, tapping the fork absently against his leg. Halfway there he hears Xander's voice, low and muffled, saying something about the Slayer. Talking to her, sounds like. He can't help it - his brain flashes to the phone on the night table. That jolts him in the heart and the gut at the same time, and sends him walking fast back to his bedroom.
He's an idiot, of course. Xander's not on the phone, he's talking in his sleep. He's worked himself around so he's got his back pressed to the wall at the head of the bed, curled in a nest of pillows. While Spike stands there watching, he frowns and jerks one hand back suddenly, as if he's reaching for something. His knuckles hit the wall, and there's the thump again.
Spike goes in and stands by the bed for a minute or two, just looking. Xander's hair is thick and heavy on the pillow, so dark it's almost black. From hip to throat he's white as a sugar mouse, his ribcage a bony ledge under his skin. Carrying crates has built his shoulders up. He's pretty, sure. But he's something else too, different from all that, nothing to do with what he looks like lying there, more about the fact that he's been here months now and his skin smells familiar.
Xander's face twists, he frowns and sighs and reaches back again against the wall - thump. Spike walks over and kneels on the side of the bed.
"Here, look." He gets hold of Xander's shoulder and hip, drags him down off the head of the bed and feels him wake up in the process. "You're all turned around." He expects Xander to stiffen and pull out of his hands - it's the pattern, he's resigned. But Xander twists, looks up, computes, then flips over and presses his forehead to Spike's knee. Spike kneels there for a couple of seconds, not sure what to do. He's still got the fork in his hand, he realizes. He puts it down on the night table and holds his palm over Xander's shoulder. Carefully, he pats.
"You...okay?"
Xander doesn't reply. One arm snakes through the sheets, curls around the back of Spike's leg, and clings. Spike pats his shoulder a few more times, then starts to feel a little off-balance and stupid. "Hang on a second." He edges back off the bed, and Xander gives him a bleary, baffled look. "Shove over."
Again, he expects Xander to wake all the way up and retreat back to arm's length, and again, it doesn't happen. He lies down and Xander's on him without a second's hesitation, arms wrapped clumsily around his neck and chest, heel hooking his ankle to pull them right together, head to toe. He's warm and heavy and lax, and he drives his head into Spike's side as if it gives him some kind of relief.
It turns into a kind of wrestling, a warm slow urgent negotiation of limbs, Xander finding way after way to latch on and pull them tighter, closer, as if he's trying to climb into Spike's clothes or right into his body. He finds one position, lies still a few seconds as if he's testing it, then gives it up and moves on. His arm behind Spike's head, around his waist, under his shoulders. His legs twined through Spike's, overtop and pinning him, then flat to the sheets. Like he's telling a litany of every position they've ever lain in, everything that's possible. He keeps his head down, pressed to Spike's side, and doesn't say anything.
Spike lies still, trying to figure it out. He's not sure whether he should be doing something, anything - saying there there or asserting some kind of discipline, pinning the kid down and making him talk or sleep or whatever. At the same time, he's aware of a growing heat in his legs and crotch. For fuck's sake. Even without the soul, he'd know this wasn't the time, but apparently his dick is still evil. He starts trying to hold himself so that Xander won't feel it, but it's awkward and useless and thinking about dog racing does no good. It's another few minutes before he realizes that Xander's hard, too. Well. That's a relief. Or it's worse - he can't decide which.
"Hey - " He gets his hands on Xander's shoulders and pushes gently, trying to get enough room to see his face. "Look, you should get some sleep." His dick, meanwhile, prods Xander's leg. Xander mutters something into his chest and curls closer around him. "What?"
"Don't go." Xander stops moving, just lies still. His face hidden, his dick prodding right back.
"You need sleep."
Xander lies still a minute, then rolls his head sharply against Spike's chest and rears up out of the sheets. Spike tenses, but he's leaning away, across the bed to the night table, yanking the top drawer open, rummaging. He flips the lube onto the covers with a careless flick of his wrist, like he's tossing Spike a beer. Spike tenses.
"Not sure this is the best time for - "
Xander drops down beside him and starts grappling again, harder this time. Like he's testing the strength in Spike's arms and legs, or in his own. Spike tries to lie still and let him do it. It's not bad, just baffling. Mainly it's warm and rough, and at some point Xander's started shaking in the shoulders. He's not crying, just shaking. He drags his face over Spike's chest, scuffs his palms over Spike's belly and thighs. Looks for handholds. Finds them, gives up. Looks for better ones.
After a bit Spike realizes he's started making quiet little noises, the same little shushing sounds he used to give Dru. It's automatic. Probably stupid, but really there's nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong with telling the kid he's all right, it's all right, just be quiet, he's all right. He does it until finally he can't stand being mauled anymore, then brings his arms up around Xander to hold him still.
"It's all right," he says softly, to the top of Xander's head. Hot breath against his chest, a hot cheek pressed to his skin. For a few seconds, things seem all right.
Then Xander plants his palms against Spike's hip and shoulder and shoves away. Spike lets go, and Xander lunges straight into him again. Hard, his hip in Spike's belly, his chin digging into Spike's neck. They're both jarred by it, and Spike flashes on the bite on his thigh, Xander stunned and breathless against the wall. God, not again, not back to that, he has to get out before this turns sour.
At the same time, he feels Xander's weight heavy on him, desperate and clumsy, and realizes it's not an attack. It's more of the same, except now Xander's shaking all over, pressing them together everywhere he can. Grinding their cocks together so hard it hurts, breathing hard. Not speaking. Not until Spike gets a hand in his hair and pulls his head back, too disgruntled to be gentle, to get a look at his face. His eyes are drenched, black, lost. His mouth's wet and open. He's panting.
"Please," he says.
Spike stares at him, then realizes he's still got a fistful of black hair, and lets go. Xander topples over onto his back, lets his legs fall apart, and grabs for Spike's arm.
"You want that?" Spike says slowly, avoiding Xander's hand. Stupid question, when he can smell it. Of course Xander wants it. Spike's not made of stone; he wants it too. Doesn't mean it's the right thing to do, though. "Xander - "
"Please." Xander gets hold of Spike's shoulder and tries to yank him over, somehow make it a done deal by sheer force of will and physics. He's damp now, sweating a fine sheen.
"You're upset," Spike says, trying to sound like the reasonable one, because one of them has to. If only he'd had more reasonable role models. "This is a bad time for you, and - "
"I'm not a kid," Xander spits. His face is suddenly white with fury, maybe hatred. Spike pulls back instinctively, and Xander's fingers dig into his shoulder. He smells like a bullet's just been fired. Explosive tang, rage.
"I know that."
"I want you to fuck me, Spike."
"I know."
"So fuck me already." Xander yanks at Spike's shoulder, and Spike puts a careful hand between them, on the mattress, and pushes away. "What, you suddenly grew a conscience?"
"I don't - " He doesn’t know what to say to that one - yes? Or maybe he just grew a healthy sense of self-preservation. Right now, Xander smells like he could kill someone. For the first time, it occurs to Spike that he's been doing something very stupid and dangerous here. "It's not a good time."
Xander gapes at him for a second, then drops his head back on the mattress and laughs. Two short barks like coughs; they sound painful. "Not a good time?" he repeats, and Spike winces. Shitty thing to say, he didn't mean it. There's nothing he can say right now, the only thing he can do that isn't complete hypocrisy is fuck the kid, and he's not going to do that. Couldn't even if he wanted to, at this point.
"I'm sorry," he tries to say, but Xander's rolling over and fixing him with a too-bright, too-sharp, predatory gaze. Feels like the tines of a fork raking him, but he can't get up and walk out; he doesn't have that right anymore. He sits silently with the sheets gathered in his lap, waiting to hear what Xander's going to dish out.
"You took me in," Xander says, in a musing tone. "I was making minimum wage letting guys suck me off in alleys and you found me and brought me home and kicked it up a notch. Room of my own, three meals a day, and a regular dick up my ass. Like Bible camp." He props his head up on one hand. Looking at Spike like he's a curiosity in a museum the whole time. "I've been paying rent here with my mouth for, what, six months now? And the one time I want you to fuck me, you won't fucking do it."
Spike sits in silence. Outside in the street, faint music is driving by.
"You asshole," Xander says, and drops his head back onto the mattress. His eyes are wet, his lips are a thin line.
"You didn't have to," Spike says. Probably going to unleash all hell, but it's true and he's still got some spine left in him.
Xander lifts his head and just stares at Spike, like he's speaking Urdu.
"You didn't have to do anything," Spike says. "Nobody chained you to the radiator, Harris. You could have walked out anytime."
"I could have - " Xander cuts himself off and the sentence just hangs there in space between them, while his eyes go blank and internal as if he's just realized that's true. Spike studies him, picks at a loose thread on the sheet, studies him again.
"Yeah. Could have robbed me blind and taken off, could have found a proper job and taken off. Could have just bloody taken off. Back to Sunny - "
Xander's face tightens like a mask, and he lets out a sharp, involuntary sound, something between a laugh and a sob. Spike just looks at him.
"Sunnydale," Xander says after a second. "Right. You're right, Spike. I could have gone back there."
"Why the hell not?"
"Well, for one thing I'm not sure my newly-discovered superpower of taking it up the ass would really fit in."
Spike frowns. "You want to tell me what's really going on here?" Xander drops his head and sneers at the sheets. "Buffy came looking for you, you know." He had no idea he was going to say that, but as soon as it's out, he's glad he did. It splits the sneer right in two, and suddenly Xander just looks young and shocked. He looks quickly at Spike, then away. Spike waits.
"I didn't know that."
"Told her I hadn't seen you. Practically got staked doing it."
Xander stares at the edge of the bed. "Nobody asked you to do that."
"Oh, fine, it's all right she knows you're here? I'll just ring her up then." He moves to swing his legs off the bed, all show, but Xander puts a hand out halfway before he can stop himself, and that's enough. Spike sits back. "So what happened?"
There's a long silence. Then Xander drops flat on his back, head back on the mattress, and laughs. Not sharp and hard this time, just deflated and bitter. "Nothing unusual," he says. "I'm a fucking idiot, is all."
"What did you do?"
"Dropped the Orb of Jebel Moya."
After a few seconds of silence, Spike raises an eyebrow. "Right, I don’t want to look stupid or anything, but maybe you could explain what that means."
"The Orb of Jebel Moya," Xander says, putting his palms over his face and rubbing, "is the crucial ingredient in a really big protection spell. It's like...the sand in the concrete. But you put it in last. Or, if you're me, you get suckerpunched by a vampire and you drop it, and it breaks. And your friends get pretty much ki - " He stops, swallows, and gives another sharp little chuckle. "Killed."
"Who got killed?"
"Nobody. Barely." He's still got his hands over his face; it's a little hard to make out what he says. "Buffy was really - " Long pause. "Really, really, really..."
After a minute, Spike says, "Mad?"
"Hurt," Xander says, wiping his face and then wiping his palms on the sheet. "Really bad."
Spike lets that sit a minute more, then says, "Looked all right when I saw her."
"That's good." The news doesn't seem to interest Xander much; he just lies staring at the ceiling, his hands loose at his sides.
"So, you decided you weren't a Slayerette anymore, and came to the big city to - "
"Make it," Xander finishes wryly. "Yeah. And things just kind of...snowballed."
Spike picks at his thumbnail, considering. "If it's any consolation, you're not bad at it."
"Thanks."
"Sure." He leans over, fishes the bottle of lube out of the covers, and studies it. "What's the amulet?"
Xander lies still for a second, then raises his head. He looks confused.
"In your backpack. That little - " Spike gestures to his neck, and Xander's face clears. Then he looks pissed off.
"You went in my stuff?"
"You asked for it, when you were sick. Some kind of spell on it, so Red can't find you?"
Xander looks at him warily, then shrugs and drops his head again. "Yeah. Except when I left I forgot to take it, and it wore off." He lifts his head and looks at Spike again. "Buffy was really here?"
"Yeah."
"Did she look...okay?"
Spike looks down at the lube in his hands, then sits up carefully, reaches over, and drops it into the drawer. Shuts it with a quiet click. "She looked tired," he says. "And she cried a bit."
Xander crosses his arms over his chest and goes back to staring at the ceiling.
"I've been thinking," Spike says. "It's time for you to fuck off."
Xander doesn't move.
"I'm out of a job," Spike says. "Time to get out of this bloody city anyway, never liked it here. Too close to the Slayer. Think I might go back to London for a bit." He's never given it a second's thought; he can't quite believe he's hearing himself say this. Something in his chest is splitting. Slow and easy and awful, like a piece of rotten wood.
Xander still hasn't said anything.
"You can keep the job if you want it," Spike says. "I'll have a word with - "
"I don't want it."
The pain's up in his throat now, and he has to swallow hard to be able to talk. "Right. Well, then. You want to keep the flat?"
"No."
"Right." The fork's still sitting on the bedside table, useless and out of place. He reaches over, picks it up, and stands up slowly. Every movement feels precise and clear. "I'm going to have a shower. You can sleep here if you want."
He heads for the door, the fork in his hand, every muscle in his neck and shoulders wired tight. It's dark out, thank Christ, he can go out, he doesn't have to be here in the flat with Harris in the other room and silence in between. And God, the pain behind his eyes, that's stupid, hypocritical, he's got no right to it. Or to the little sawing of hope he gets when he hears Xander shift on the mattress behind him.
"I'll sleep in my own bed," Xander says, getting up. "And I'll be out tomorrow morning."
Spike nods briskly without looking back, and goes to take his shower.
