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baudownAuthor: baudown
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I would like to.
Summary: Xander's got a little something on the side. Alternate season 5ish where nothing whatsoever is happening to any other characters.
Notes: Last week, in a reply to a comment by dimestorefind, I mentioned that I didn't write this in chapters -- it was written more as a series of encounters or vignettes. But it just kept going and going, and so I have no choice but to post it in chapter form. The problem is that sometimes, if I break where it feels most natural, it creates chapters that are way too long or way too short. This particular section was particularly challenging in terms of finding the right place to break. And basically, I never found it, and livejournal wouldn't let me post in one piece, so I'm giving you two sections today -- 4a and 4b -- because I think it all goes together.
Feedback: Please.
Parts 1-3 here: http://livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=baudown&keyword=And%20All%20Was%20Said&filter=all
Xander’s put his foot down. Anya can come if she wants, or she can stay home, but he’s going to the double feature of Way of the Dragon and Enter the Dragon. Period. And he does, although he doesn’t have time to stop for popcorn, delayed, as he was, by guilty minutes spent knocking at the locked bedroom door, half-heartedly persuading her to join him. The lights are just dimming when he steps inside, and the theater’s mostly empty; so he spots Spike immediately, slouching in the second row, boots propped up on the seat in front of him. It stops him in his tracks. Xander’s not sure why he’s so surprised, except that he’s never really pictured Spike at the movies. And he realizes that he’s never actually pictured Spike doing anything, other than -- you know, evil. That, and the stuff they do together.
He slips as quietly as he’s able into the seat diagonally behind Spike, covertly examining his profile. Impossibly young, impossibly handsome. Fucking unfair, that the guy doesn’t have a bad angle. Spike’s absorbed in the credits, and doesn’t seem to notice Xander at all; doesn’t turn, or even flick a glance in his direction. So it’s startling when he speaks, eyes still focused on the screen.
“If you’re gonna sit there, keep your gob shut. Man’s an artist.”
Xander stifles the urge to point out that Spike’s the one talking, and settles back comfortably. An hour and forty minutes later, the house lights come up between features, and when Xander returns from the bathroom, Spike’s standing in the lobby, holding a large tub of popcorn and too many boxes of candy.
“Here,” Spike mumbles, mouth full of something sticky, shoving the popcorn Xander's way. “Yours.”
And the surprises keep on coming. “You paid for this?” Xander asks, flabbergasted.
Spike snorts derisively. “Bloke at the counter’s a Gyrysh demon. Half, anyway. Owes me money.” His lips are stained red, but with candy. “Love these Swedish Fish,” he adds.
Xander follows Spike into the second row, but leaves an empty seat between them. A holdover habit from the time Jesse's older brother came upon the two of them, sitting side by side at the movies, and accused them of "homo-ing" each other. Spike quirks an eyebrow at him, and Xander thinks how Eskimos have a hundred words for snow, and Spike has one eyebrow quirk that means a hundred different things. This one means: what are you doing, you stupid git? And so Xander moves nearer.
It feels oddly intimate, sitting so close to Spike, outside of the crypt. Watching a movie with Spike, sharing an armrest with Spike, eating popcorn that Spike -- okay, didn't exactly buy for him, but sort of treated him to, anyway. All the trappings of a date, and Xander wonders, disquieted, if he's unexpectedly stumbled into one. Remembering movie dates with Cordelia, and the moment their eyes would turn from the screen to each other, kissing and kissing and not stopping until the end credits rolled. But he and Spike never kiss, never have, so that prospect can't be the source of this niggling discomfort.
It's a disconnect, is what it is. Incongruous, to be alone, in the dark, under date-like circumstances with someone you fool around with or whatever, and simply sit there, like the two of you are nothing more than friends. Plus, they aren't actually friends, are they? Which is kind of freaky, if you think about it, which he usually doesn't. The whole thing is distracting.
Xander squirms uneasily in his seat, canting himself farther and farther away from the familiar body beside him; until eventually, Spike scowls at him, disgustedly. "Don't flatter yourself," he snaps. "Not looking to hold your hand. Not your bloody girlfriend, am I." Spike huffs and hunches, arms crossed. A muscle tics fitfully in his cheek.
Xander's about to retort that for someone who's not his girlfriend, Spike is sure acting like it, when it occurs to him that maybe Spike has a right to feel insulted. It's a real fuck-you: hey, feel free to suck my dick in private, but don't expect me to sit next to you in public. He's been at the bad end of that bargain himself, in the early days with Cordy -- good enough for the broom closet, but not good enough for the Bronze. Hurtful, but he hasn't let himself think much about Spike as someone with feelings that can be hurt. And while he doesn't see him quite the way he used to -- exclusively evil, and annoying to boot -- it hasn't hit him until now that Spike might think of Xander as a friend. Maybe his only friend, since Dru. A friend who's just treated him like total crap.
Xander elbows him in the ribs, but Spike ignores him, pointedly. He does it again, and this time, he's answered with an irritated noise.
"Hey," Xander stage-whispers. "I'm an asshole."
"Just sussed that one out, have you?" Spike grumbles. "Stop the presses."
But the mood lightens after that, and when Xander peeks over, Spike is lounging lazily, loose-limbed and unruffled. His face has stopped twitching, too.
Later, Spike walks with him to the car, and they shoot the shit for a while, talking martial arts, and movies, and Bruce Lee, whom Spike claims to have met, twice. Spike reenacts some side kicks and the one-inch punch, pretty creditably, putting a boot-shaped dent in an innocent mailbox. It's nice, doing guy stuff for a change, and Xander can see, hypothetically, the appeal of having a boyfriend -- karate films and kinky sex, all in one neat package. Not Spike, obviously, but some faceless, fuckworthy Mr. X. But he doesn't consider it for long. He likes women, loves Anya, and he's always envisioned a particular kind of future: marriage and kids and honey-I'm-home. The dream life of his childhood. He's pretty sure that it's still what he wants.
It was fun, though -- the movies, with Spike -- and they hang out a few times after that. Outside the crypt. Outside of Thursdays. Anya's recently renewed her acquaintance with a few friends from her demon days, and she gets together with them, now and then; and these are gatherings from which Xander firmly absents himself. Has a couple of beers with Spike, and plays some pool.
He's nervous, the first time he proposes it. Has the same sort of is-this-a-date jitters that he'd felt at the movies. And it doesn't help that Spike stares at him, speechless, for uncomfortably long seconds, before recovering enough to shrug casually and say, maybe, if nothing better turns up.
He's nervous, waiting at the bar, too. Wondering if Spike is even going to show, and worried that it'll be awkward and stilted if he does. But Spike arrives, upbeat and effusive, having kicked some upstart fledge's arse on the way over, an event he happily recounts in vivid, blow-by-blow detail. That turns into a story about Spike as a fledge, making short work of some tosser who fancied himself the big bad, which somehow leads him to reminisce about a vamp from back in the day who went about in a nun's habit and lived in a catacomb in Parma.
They do a few shots and down a few beers, and Xander must be drunker than he thought, because he winds up telling Spike the story of losing his virginity to Faith. He's never talked about this with anyone, beyond the mere fact of it, and he gives it a comical slant. Spike laughs, but when he says, "First time, with a Slayer," the words are tinged with jealous admiration.
Spike presses for details, and Xander grows increasingly reticent, not particularly keen on discussing the incident's ugly aftermath. But Spike has an unerring instinct for seeking out pain, or maybe simply for seeing it, and he prods and probes, like a tongue at a tooth, until Xander divulges the coda to the tale. And immediately wishes he hadn't, because Spike is irate.
"Bitch could've killed you," Spike seethes, staring at him. "And Angelus playing the fucking hero."
"Angel," Xander corrects, although the distinction seems lost on Spike, whose eyes have narrowed, his face gone hostile and dangerous. Xander recognizes the expression: Spike wants to put the big hurt on someone, but not for fun. And he isn't sure if it's Faith that Spike's mad at, or Angel, or both; but perversely, his anger starts Xander's dick stirring, and his mind mulling over the logistics of a hurried hand job in the men's room.
Instead of following that impulse, and for reasons he can't quite comprehend, he blurts out, "You weren't around, back then." He isn't even sure what he means by it, or why it should mollify Spike, but somehow it seems to. The pinched, fierce look slowly smooths itself out, and Spike blinks a few times, and rolls his neck, as if collecting himself. He smiles at Xander, tightly, at first, but eventually in his usual, sardonic way, and then things return to normal. Or what passes for normal, between them. A plate of wings, some drunken talk, Spike cursing the paltry selections on the jukebox, hissing, Celine Dion in the sort of horror-stricken tone usually reserved for Hitler. The night breezing by as if they're just a couple of ordinary guys, hanging together; except that when they separate on the sidewalk, Spike gives Xander a smoldering look that makes him weak and wobbly at the knees. Spike leaves, laughing, a satisfied glance tossed over his shoulder; and Xander's eyes stay fixed on his receding shape, until there's nothing left but a grayish shadow, and then only darkness.
It's not a regular thing, but Xander finds himself looking forward to the occasional night out with Spike, in a different way than he looks forward to Thursdays. He hasn't had a male friend in a long time; not since Jesse, and never as an adult, if that's what he is. Spike's better than decent company, with a century of stories to tell, and no one's ever accused Xander of being short-winded. Their conversation finds a relaxed kind of rhythm, words bumping up against each other and rubbing shoulders companionably. But they're quiet, too, sometimes, sitting together over their drinks in easy silence; and this is new to Xander, and good.
It's one of those nights, and Anya stops by to pick him up on her way home from dinner. Xander's been chuckling at a Seinfeld rerun, playing on the bar's enormous flatscreen.
"Can't believe you like that whinging wanker," Spike is grousing. "Nattering on about nonsense. Now, if we're talking comedy -- Lenny Bruce. There's a man had something to say." And then, at Xander's blank-faced lack of recognition, he's sputtering "genius," and "junkie," and "rebel" with righteous indignation.
Xander pulls up a stool and tells Anya they'll just be a minute. But it's more than a minute, as Spike launches into a lengthy tale about New York in the sixties, and some post-performance melee at Cafe Au Go Go during which he cold-cocked three cops. It's probably equal parts truth and bullshit, like most of Spike's stories, but it's entertaining; and Xander, engrossed, fails to notice Anya shifting restlessly in her seat, or her frustrated, theatrical throat-clearing. Until finally, her limited patience reaches its limit, and she says, dripping acid, "Maybe, Xander, you could tell your boyfriend that your girlfriend is tired, and she wants to go home."
It's a nasty comment, sarcasm, that's all. It's not as if she knows something, or even suspects. But it cuts a little too close to the bone. Spike breaks off, mid-word, his mouth hanging open, before it skews into a sneer. He laughs meanly, and he's about to say something scathing, but Xander shoots him a pleading look. And remarkably, Spike shuts up, the snide expression replaced by one of puzzlement, as if astounded and appalled at his own dog-like compliance. Xander takes Anya by the arm, and hustles her out of there, whispering hushed, fervent apologies that he's humiliatingly certain Spike can hear.
There's an irony about Anya's anger, and it's this: things have been better between them since he's taken up with Spike. Oil on troubled waters, somehow. It's as if Xander's found a hobby to distract him, making the grind of everyday life more tolerable. Or maybe not so much a hobby -- Spike-sex isn't exactly ships in bottles, or cataloging coins -- but more a private indulgence, a secret luxury. With Spike in the picture, he's less impatient with her complaints and demands; not as apt to lash out over petty irritations. Even sex with her, though infrequent, has improved, as if the cool, angled strength of Spike's body has revived in him an appreciation for its opposite: her soft flesh, her rounded curves, her yielding warmth.
That night marks the end of their outings together. Xander avoids the subject, and when Spike finally raises it -- "wouldn't say no to a beer" -- Xander declines, offering a perfectly plausible excuse. He begs off the next time, too; and after that, Spike doesn't ask again. It's a relief, not having to explain, or justify himself; not having to feel guilty for not giving more than he's able. If it were Anya, there'd be discussion, debate, drama. But if Spike's disappointed, he doesn't say. Xander isn't sure whether this is merely a difference of personality between Anya and Spike, or whether it speaks to a broader, more basic difference between men and women. Either way, he appreciates it.
Part 4b:http://baudown.livejournal.com/8659.html#cutid1
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no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 03:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 04:33 pm (UTC)I'm not telling...
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Date: 2012-09-23 05:57 pm (UTC)Moseying over to part b.
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Date: 2012-09-23 06:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 06:41 pm (UTC)It means that your story speaks to realism, as we all evaluate our lives through the lens of our past, but I'm glad to see it because sometimes even though I think characters should be having the thoughts that they are, it seems like they've been imbued with prescient or omniscient knowledge of how badly this or that will turn out should they say/do what they were thinking about at first. This slow and steady push forward is one of my favorite parts of stories, and so often glossed over or forgotten or it comes too easy; yours is so natural.
Of course, I do love Spike in this too: “Here,” Spike mumbles, mouth full of something sticky, shoving the popcorn Xander's way. “Yours.”/"Just sussed that one out, have you?" Spike grumbles. "Stop the presses."/But Spike has an unerring instinct for seeking out pain, or maybe simply for seeing it, and he prods and probes, like a tongue at a tooth.../he's about to say something scathing, but Xander shoots him a pleading look. And remarkably, Spike shuts up...
Just perfect: defensive but open, taking the risk of doing something nice, and that last one where he doesn't even realize what he's doing until it's too late, and he has to self-evaluate because that is not the way he's supposed to react. Slowly coming to realize just what's going on here, whereas Xander's still in the dark even though his subconscious is coming to the same conclusion (He's pretty sure that it's still what he wants./Xander finds himself looking forward to the occasional night out with Spike, in a different way than he looks forward to Thursdays./ But they're quiet, too...and this is new to Xander, and good.)
And, of course, the heart-wrenching bit at the end, which I am coming to expect: He begs off the next time, too; and after that, Spike doesn't ask again.
The only criticism I have with this part is Anya's voice. We only get to hear it the once, "Maybe, Xander, you could tell your boyfriend that your girlfriend is tired, and she wants to go home.", and the line itself is so important, pivotal, that I understand why it's there and absolutely think it should be. However, I don't think Anya would say it quite like that. Sarcasm isn't really Anya's mode of delivery, as I remember it (please correct me if I'm wrong). Most of the time the lines she delivers that sound sarcastic are often just painfully blunt. She's not really much of one for metaphor, either, as is shown by her days as Anyanka, where she would literally turn people into trolls or worms. That's also why Halfrek points out that she's off her game when she turns one girl's husband French when she wishes he was a frog.
All this is, of course, what makes her calling Spike Xander's boyfriend so perfect, and I love that. But I also think that Anya is a woman who speaks in the first person ("Xander, I'm ready to go home") rather than the third ("...she wants to go home"). I think it mostly struck me as I think you've nailed Spike and Xander's voices so well that it was weird for me to look at Anya's statement and feel like it didn't fit. I hope you don't mind me saying so, and this may just be my impression, but there it is.
On to comment on part two!
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Date: 2012-09-23 07:29 pm (UTC)Spike is always ahead of the learning curve when it comes to emotional understanding, don't you think? I think he's had some degree of awareness about his feelings from early on, which is why he's so defensive, and why his own behavior sometimes takes him by surprise.
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Date: 2012-09-23 10:13 pm (UTC)I agree that Spike is ahead of the emotional curve, and that he's been (to some degree) aware of his feelings since their first encounter. That's very in keeping with canon, but he's also someone who pays lip service to denial of his own feelings, which adds another layer of legitimacy to his defensiveness and surprise, for me.
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Date: 2012-09-26 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-26 02:52 am (UTC)