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Notes: So very, very done.
I don't know if y'all remember, but I started the Prawnverse to thank saussy bombard saussy into submission with Spander, after she gave me paid LJ time. Well, I hereby declare victory. Unilaterally. If anyone (i.e. saussy) tells you otherwise, I trust you'll remember my declaration.
It is currently 12:15 am. This post is brought to you by chocolate-covered almonds with extreme prejudice, and also by the letter "N," for "no editing."
Thanks to everyone who's commented on the Prawnverse; your feedback is sweeter than honey, y'all. Extra-special thanks to drc1, who has diligently kept a record of the Prawnverse chapters
Prawnverse part 20
It was the red-haired vamp, the one that called him a faggot. It only takes about two hours to find that out - a lot less time than he spends in killing the bastard. Afterward, wandering rooftops with blood on his hands and ashes up his nose, he can't decide whether it's made him feel any better. Which must mean it hasn't.
He goes in for his last week's pay, and Texas makes him come into the office. Tells him to close the door. Spike stands there in front of the desk with his knuckles tingling, wondering if Texas knows how pitiful and weak the soul is right now.
"Where's the kid?" Texas asks, not looking up from the ledger he's perusing.
"Gone."
Texas licks one huge thumb and turns the page. "Gone where?"
"Home."
"You taking his last week's, too?" There's another envelope on the desk, Spike notices. He stares at it for a few seconds, then shakes his head. Texas still doesn't look up, just puts out one hand and slides the envelope back into the open drawer beside him. Shuts the drawer. "You killed that vamp?"
Spike says nothing. Texas's thick yellow thumbnail creases a line in the page beneath a row of figures, and he frowns. Then he lays his pencil down carefully in the spine of the book, folds his hands on the pages, and looks up at Spike. "You might want to leave town."
"Is that a threat?"
Texas watches him, those cold black eyes showing nothing at all. "No," he says at last. "That guy had friends. You don't. You might want to leave town tonight."
Spike stands there trying to look certain, or at least big. He feels small. Feels like he's made of broomstraws and loose string, nothing to hold him together. Killing that vamp was the last thing that made him feel like anything at all, and that wasn't much.
"Right, okay," he says finally. Texas nods and picks up his pencil again, and Spike shows himself out.
"Where will you go?" Bitte asks while he's clearing out his locker. He shrugs.
When he closes the locker door and turns to go, he almost runs into her, startling both of them. She grabs him around the shoulders and wraps him in a punishing hug, her forehead buried in his neck. She's warm and firm, and she smells like linden flowers.
"It's all right," he says, patting her shoulder awkwardly.
"Oh shut up," she says, and squeezes him tighter, until the only thing he can do is squeeze her back.
He fully intends to leave town that night, but he gets caught up in little things - the albums, an extra razor on the edge of the tub, a folded fifty he'd completely forgotten, still sitting on his dresser. The silence. He doesn't know what to do with any of it. And then suddenly he's drunk and it's nearly dawn and he's stuck there another day. That's when the vamp's friends arrive and beat the crap out of him. Four of them, with stakes, and the only way he gets out of it alive is by chucking himself out the window onto the fire escape and scrambling up to the roof with his hair on fire. He's medium-rare by the time he gets into the shade of the air output.
He spends seven hours up there counting the breaks in his ribs, watching the sun slope across the sky until the shadows are long enough that he can make a running jump across to the building opposite. On that roof he rests again. After a few minutes, another jump. Finally it's dark enough to half-fall down another fire escape and drag himself into the sewers.
When he gets back to his flat, he's not surprised at what he finds. The albums are snapped to pieces, his books are confetti. The television's been kicked in. Couch cushions in ribbons. There's stuff written on the walls; he doesn't bother to read it. He stands in the middle of the mess, looking around. Feeling a strange sort of satisfaction.
There are still bandages in the bathroom, so he fixes himself up as well as he can, then pats his pockets for the keys to the DeSoto and leaves.
It's not strange, knocking on Angel's door - it feels like something he's been meaning to do for a long time.
Autumn in New York isn't moody or nostalgic or any of the things they put in movies. It's cold and busy. He's supposed to be keeping tabs on three leads, picking up a shipment from LA down on Pearl, and somehow getting back up to Morningside Heights in time to check the park for kreblins. Angel's a prick about schedules.
He gets two of the three leads squared away - one's in custody, won't be going anywhere for at least 24 hours, they tell him at the precinct desk; the other's conveniently dead. The third one's a loose end, there's no answer at the apartment when he tries it and the work address doesn't exist. He drives down to Pearl with his head propped in one hand, mulling over his options. He could give it up for the night, call LA and tell them the information was bad, he couldn't find the guy. Not like he doesn't have enough to do as it is. Or he could pick up the package and then go talk to Lewis, see if he's heard anything about a werewolf running around loose.
He leans forward over the steering wheel and peers up at the moon through the top of the windshield. Round and bright, almost full. He almost rear-ends the car in front of him, staring.
By the time he's down to Pearl and found a place to park he's smoked three cigarettes and bitten both his thumbnails down to nothing. He's in a shitty mood. He's in a shitty mood a lot these days.
He sometimes thinks those ribs may not have healed right. From the beating, that last night in his flat. His chest aches a lot. His shoulders are heavy.
Cynthia usually keeps packages in the back, but this time when he walks in she just looks him over and goes back to her Palm Pilot. He stands there a second, breathing in the warm stale smell of all the dried whatsits in the drawers, then raises his eyebrows at her.
"Got something for me?"
She nods at the back of the shop without looking up. He frowns, considers asking for a little more input or else just turning around and walking right out - he's not in the mood for inscrutability - then remembers he'll just have to come back tomorrow if he doesn't get it today. Whatever it is.
"Want to give me a hint?" He's already walking away down the first narrow little aisle, letting one hand knock against the handles of the drawers, scuffing his boots. If it's too big for Cynthia to drag around, he doesn't want to try to get it into the car. What a fucking night.
He rounds the corner, ducks a hanging bundle of some kind of nasty dried seedpods, and freezes.
"Hi," Xander says.
He's standing there with his back pressed against the counter, his hands gripping it on either side, the knuckles a little white. Wearing clean blue jeans and a white T-shirt and a down jacket over that. He's gained a couple of pounds. That's good; he was too thin before. His hair's been cut. Short and a little choppy. Makes his head look different. And he's brown, face and hands and throat, like he's been out building split rail fences in the sun all day. Or something.
He looks older.
"Hi," Spike says.
They just stand there, looking at each other, until Xander finally looks away. He's been opening drawers back here, occupying himself by peering in at the powders and bundles; he carefully shuts each drawer. Spike watches his knuckles, the back of his neck. The hair's cut so short there he can see the skin through it. Short enough to prickle against your palm if you touched it. When the drawers are all closed up, Xander turns back.
"So," he says. He smells like himself. Like skin and soap and warmth, and a little bit like he's scared spitless.
"You eat on the plane?" Spike asks.
Xander gives him half a smile, and shakes his head.
"Number two." Xander studies the menu a few seconds longer, then adds, "And a number thirteen."
The waitress takes the menu and turns to Spike. "You?"
He shakes his head. "Coffee."
After she's gone, they sit there in silence for a bit. Xander plays with his cutlery, lining them up fork knife spoon, then knife spoon fork, then spoon fork knife. Spike watches him do it. He's filled out more in the shoulders, just in the few months since he left LA. He's solid now. Substantial. And by the look of his knuckles, he's been doing some fighting.
"Buffy showing you the ropes?" he asks. Xander looks up, a little startled, then follows Spike's gaze and spreads his fingers on the table between them, as if for inspection.
"Nah. I've been in LA again. With Angel."
Spike takes that in silently. Xander's watching him carefully, though, and he's never been any good at hiding what he feels.
"It's okay," Xander says, looking back down at his hands. "I mean, I asked him not to say anything to you about it. It just seemed..."
"Right, I get it."
"It seemed complicated."
"Right."
"I wasn't sure I was going to come."
That touches on something sharply, a nerve he didn't even know was there, and he has to clamp his mouth shut and just sit there like an idiot, staring at Harris's hands.
"But now I am. Sure."
After a few seconds, Spike clears his throat and says inanely, "Well, here you are."
There's no answer, and he looks up to find Xander smiling at him. A shy sideways smile that takes him completely off guard. He looks away again, down into his own lap where his fingers are fighting each other.
"Here I am," Xander says.
The coffee comes, and Spike puts cream in it just for something to do. Then he sits watching his spoon circle, trying to make his brain cough up something to say. The only thing he can think of is I'm sorry, and he's pretty sure he's already said that enough.
"Spike," Xander says. His tone is gentle, and it startles Spike into looking up. Xander's eyes are calm and dark. His own hands are still flat on the table. "You want to get out of here?"
Spike fishes out a twenty to cover the check, and they're gone without another word.
His flat's smaller than the one in LA, and grubbier. He has a moment of shame with his key in the lock, then converts it into a perverse pleasure. He's just another one of Angel's lackeys now - he gets the same salary everyone else does. In New York, it doesn't go very far.
"No spare room," he says, stepping inside and jiggling the lock to make it let go. "Sorry 'bout that. Sofa folds out, though - last bloke who slept here said it was all right." He realizes a second after he's said it that it sounds wrong. "Angel sends people out sometimes on jobs, is all."
Xander's looking around, unzipping his jacket, nodding a little as if he's not really paying attention to what Spike's saying. It's bizarre to see him here, next to the four locks on the door and the little corner table that came with the place, covered in faxes and shipping invoices and notes to self in Spike's own crabbed black hand. He looks larger than life. Realer than life. The flat's a mess, Spike realizes.
"Make yourself at home," he says, walking quickly over to the kitchenette and swinging the fridge door open, studying what's inside as if he didn't know what's in there. Blood, beer, and half a molded lemon. "Shower's just down - " He starts to point, then gets seized by a memory of sending the kid off to the shower that first night in LA, and grabs his hand back as if he's burned it on the air. "You hungry?"
Xander doesn't answer, and Spike has to look around to see him shaking his head. He's toeing off his shoes, running a hand through his hair. Looks tired. Spike turns back to the fridge.
"So how long you been working for the poof?"
"A couple of months."
"Sunnydale didn't agree anymore?"
There's a pause, and he glances back over his shoulder to see Xander stuck with his hand halfway through his hair, staring at the floor as if he's trying to remember a word. When he realizes Spike's looking at him, he looks up with a quick, apologetic smile. "Sunnydale was just...it just felt small."
"Well, yeah."
"It was good seeing everybody again. It was good I went back." He pauses again and studies his socks, then shrugs. "But, you know. They didn't really need me."
Spike opens his mouth to disagree - Slayer cried for you, mate - then shuts it. Xander's the one who'd know, after all.
"So how come the poof sent you here?"
Xander looks mildly surprised. "He didn't send me. I came."
Spike turns back to the fridge and stares at the green-grey furze on the lemon. His chest's aching again, and he has this strange urge to breathe. "Why'd you come?"
After a pause, he hears Xander cross the floor to stand behind him. He doesn't move. If Xander hits him, he won't fight back. He won't let himself be staked, but if it's just hitting, he doesn't mind. The thought of Xander's fists on him is almost appealing, actually. It might be a good thing, might knock some of the pain out.
Xander's hand on his shoulder is firm and gentle, pulling him upright. He lets himself be pulled. Stands still while Xander closes the refrigerator door. There's silence for a few seconds. Warm hand on his shoulder, and the smell of his body right there, standing just behind him.
"I came to find you," Xander says, and tugs his shoulder. He turns easily, like he's set in a hinge, and Xander's smiling at him soberly, and then they're kissing. Xander's warm and heavy, pressing him into the refrigerator, the handle sunk in his spine but he doesn't care about that. All he cares about is the taste in his mouth, the feel of Xander's breath against his lips, the hands sliding up his sides to his shoulders and the back of his neck. The warm tongue against his own, the little sounds they're both making. The way Xander pushes into him, nudging his feet apart so he can stand in between, body to body. Like palms pressed together, the way people pray.
He knows he's grabbing hold too hard, but he can't seem to stop himself.
Xander doesn't complain; he leans in harder too, cups a hand around the back of Spike's neck and kisses him so their teeth knock together. Bites his tongue, licks him. He's grinning, Spike realizes, and when that sinks in it's all too surreal, and he has to pause a second to get his bearings. It takes a hand on Xander's chest to make him back off that long.
"You're...sure about this," Spike says, not quite finding the courage to make it sound like a question. Xander smiles, grabs Spike's free hand, and starts to bring it down between his legs. Spike pulls it away. "I don't have any money."
Xander leans back on his heels and studies Spike's face.
"I don't have a spare room, I don't have any money, and I'm not interested in making deals." It sounds flat, hostile even, and he winces. "I mean, it's fine if you want to stay here a bit, find your feet - " God, he's such a fucking idiot. "Look, all I mean is - "
"I know what you mean." Xander looks down at Spike's hand on his chest, reaches down, and carefully removes it. "I just wanted to see you." He's still got a couple of Spike's fingers in his; he presses them, then suddenly latches them through his and hangs on. When he looks up, he's smiling. "Got a real bed in this dive?"
Spike knows how stupid his own smile must look - slow, shy, practically virginal - but he doesn't fucking care. He leans forward and there's more kissing, more of the good familiar taste in his mouth, familiar and strange because they never really kissed before, and he's stumbling over his own feet, walking backward with Xander's hands unbuttoning his shirt. Xander's laughing at him. Fine. He kicks the bedroom door open with his heel and immediately falls backward onto the bed because there's no room to walk in there. Also, it's black as sin with the shades down.
Xander falls down on top of him, still working on the buttons, one knee in between Spike's legs and a look of concentration on his face. It's too dark for him to see what he's doing, and for some reason that makes it easier to lie back and look at him properly. He's fucking beautiful. Clumsy and wet-lipped and flushed, and there's something in him that acts like a magnet to the ache in Spike's chest and shoulders. Pulls it all right out, and in the space that's left behind there's a quivering barely-held-in feeling that he doesn't know what to do with. Except to reach up and get Xander's shoulders in his hands, and pull him down for another kiss.
"Jesus Christ," Xander gasps finally, pulling back and rolling to the side to shuck his shirt in one economical yank. "Could you get it a little darker in here, please? I can still see faint outlines."
"Blinds," Spike says. "Find they help me wake up not on fire."
"I'll close them again," Xander says, rolling off the bed on the far side and feeling his way to the window. "Am I anywhere near - ah, fuck - " He lets the blinds up with a snap and limps back to the bed, squinting in the faint glow of the street lights outside. "I think I just stepped on a blood bag." He stops suddenly, staring at Spike, an unselfconscious smile creeping across his face. "Hi."
Spike stares back, a little unnerved. "Hi."
Xander drops back onto the bed and reaches out. Spike rolls over onto him, and there's more kissing, heady ridiculous kissing that goes on forever and he'd be happy with just that, it's plenty. But Xander's popping the buttons on his jeans and before he can say anything stupid, his cock is free. The first touch of Xander's hand makes him gasp and twist away, because he's damned if he's going to come like that. For a second Xander looks concerned. Then he gets it, and his grin is huge.
"Hey." He's wriggling out of his jeans, getting his feet caught and laughing at himself, jerking his hips up so their cocks rub and laughing again when Spike pulls away again. "You're close, huh?"
Spike just looks at him, trying to get a handle on it. Xander's eyes are huge and black, fascinated, happy. His dick's hard in the seam of Spike's groin.
"Can you be in me like this?" he asks, his hands skimming down Spike's back and taking hold of his hips. Before Spike can find the words to answer, Xander's holding him tightly in place and pushing up, jacking his cock against Spike's leg and belly. Hard, two three four times, then letting go suddenly and lying still, his eyes closed, his face concentrated. Breathing. Right on the edge.
Spike lies staring down at him, feeling the deep tender trembling in his chest again. Xander opens his eyes and smiles. Slowly, Spike smiles back.
"It's good to see you," Xander whispers.
"It's good - " Spike repeats, and then doesn't know how to finish. Finally he just shakes his head, still smiling like an idiot. Xander arches up and kisses him gently.
"Come on," he says, and puts an arm out to where the bedside table used to be. There isn't one now - there's no room for one. He looks confused for a second, then rolls his eyes and laughs. "Fuck, wrong apartment."
"Right, yeah."
"So where should I be looking?"
Spike says nothing. He doesn't have lube, because he doesn't have sex. Not lately, not since he's lived here. Suddenly it seems like a stupid oversight not to have laid some in. He tries to think of something to say, but it's too late - Xander's already seen it in his face.
"Nothing?"
He shakes his head. "You?"
"I didn't - no."
They lie there for a second, looking at each other. In Spike's chest, the delicate push is folding in on itself. He has a sickening feeling that he's failed, he knows it's stupid but he can't help it. He has a vision of Xander quietly disentangling, getting up, and finding his clothes in the dark.
"Please don't go," he says desperately, all in a rush. Xander looks startled.
"I'm not," he says. "Spike, it's fine, it's no big deal." One hand settles on the back of Spike's neck and holds firm.
"Right, I know." He's embarrassed now, but now that he's made a fool of himself he wants to keep going. "Don't go, all right? Just...stay. Please."
"I'm staying."
"Because I can't stop thinking about you and it's doing my fucking head in and I'm sorry for everything, I'm so fucking sorry."
"Spike, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
"I want you here."
"I'm here."
They stare at each other for a few seconds. Spike realizes he's gone tense all over, and tries to get his shoulders down.
"Well, now that that's settled," Xander says, and kisses him. His hips come up at the same time, his cock scraping Spike's belly, and Spike pushes back without thinking. It's the closest they're going to get tonight. He'll take it. It's awkward and painful and sweet and frustrating, and all he wants is to get inside, push in and see Xander's eyes soak black, hear him stammer out what he wants God, please, fuck - , but he's already doing that. And then Xander loses rhythm and there's a hot syncopated wetness on Spike's belly and cock, and he gets his hand down in time to feel some of it on his fingers.
"I love you," he gasps, and Xander's dopey, electric smile is so near to what he's dreamed of that it's like a hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him over his edge.
Xander gets up before it's light to pull the blinds closed, then burrows back under the covers, one arm around Spike's waist.
"How long are you staying?" Spike asks, because he can't help himself.
"I'm staying," Xander says. In less than a minute, he's asleep again.
Spike lies awake, one hand moving gently over Xander's forearm. Outside, the streets are filling with traffic.
