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And All Was Said (Spike/Xander, NC-17) Part 4b
Author: 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.bm
Part 4a here: http://baudown.livejournal.com/8219.html#cutid1
Still, he resolves to make more of an effort with Anya. They go dancing, and bowling, and one day he sees a necklace in a shop window -- delicate, intertwined silver loops that he can picture draped over her collarbones -- and he buys it for her on an impulse. She twitters happily, holding up her hair so he can clasp it for her in the back. The gesture is utterly feminine, lovely; the curve of her neck graceful and relaxed. Nothing like Spike, whose neck is a column of tight sinew and twisting tension. And he knows it's totally inappropriate to be thinking of Spike as he drops a kiss on Anya's shoulder, but he can't help it. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, Spike is simply there, elbowing his way into Xander's thoughts. And Xander has a lot of thoughts.
Like, there's this one idea, see? About something they can maybe do together? And it's been running through his head for days.
It involves this pair of leather pants -- the really, really tight ones Spike wears sometimes, that show off the shape his dick, the long, thick bulge of it against his thigh. And maybe Spike is wearing those pants, and nothing else. He's shirtless, and shoeless, and maybe the top button's undone, and the tips of his fingers are tucked in at the waist, plus the zipper's unzipped just a little. And he's moving toward Xander, coming closer and closer, cool and slithery, like a snake getting ready to shed its skin. Looking at Xander with hooded eyes, and any second now he could strike, any second. And he's saying things -- no, demanding things -- in that low, steady sex-voice that shuts down the part of Xander's brain that has a choice. So Xander just has to do it, see, he has to do whatever Spike wants, which maybe includes some crawling, and a lot of kneeling, and working Spike out of those pants with nothing but his teeth. And maybe Spike uses him then, just uses his mouth, just fucks it, ruthlessly, like he owns it, like it doesn't matter one bit if Xander wants it or not; and all the while he keeps on saying things, filthy, disgusting things about how hot Xander's mouth is, and how tight his throat is, and how he was made to take it hard. Maybe Xander's not allowed to come until Spike finishes, until Spike's dick jerks and throbs and spills, until Xander swallows down every pulsing drop, until he feels like he's drowning. Maybe he keeps Spike's dick in his mouth, holds it there as it softens, and then Spike slips out and says, ask permission, ask me nice. And Xander says, please can I come, and Spike says yeah, I want to see you do it, get on your back and open your legs for me. So Xander does, Xander spreads himself out, his hips straining up and his dick hard and wet, and when Spike nods okay, Xander strokes himself fast and so rough that it almost hurts. He's moaning and arching up, and Spike stands above him, watching, watching and licking his lips. And maybe Spike's saying, gorgeous, never seen anything so gorgeous, such a good boy, you are, a good, good boy, and maybe that's what pushes Xander over the edge and he comes.
Maybe something like that.
Thursday takes its own sweet time rolling around, and when it finally -- finally -- gets there, Xander's worked himself into a state. Vibrating with anticipation as he heads to the crypt, bouncing on the balls of his feet, smile dumb and dreamy. He can practically taste the leather on his tongue, and he flings the door open and barrels in, and --
It's red-eyed, and droopy-eared, with a face like melting wax. It seems perfectly at home, planted comfortably in Spike's chair, shoveling Bugles messily between a crumpled bag and its mouth. Xander gawks at it, and then at Spike, who cuts his eyes covertly in its direction, then shrugs a silent apology.
"Xander, this is Clem," Spike says, as if the situation calls for polite introductions. "Clem, Xander."
"Nice to meet you, man," it -- Clem -- says. " Any friend of Spike's." He offers a flipper-like, pointy-nailed hand.
Xander takes it, shakes it, mutely, reflexively.
"So, you from around here, Xander? Or do you guys know each other from before?"
"Oh, no, uh, we don't, you know, know each other," Xander begins. He feels the blather slip its leash and begin to run wild. "I mean, obviously we know each other, because, well, I'm here, and I guess you've noticed that already, so yeah, we know each other, but, you know, not in the biblical sense -- heh heh, not that you were thinking that or anything, I mean, why would you. No, see, I just came by to -- came by to..."
"Xander came by to bring me a message from the Slayer, isn't that right, Xander?" Spike interjects coolly. "Very hush hush, I suppose. Guess you'll be wanting to chat in private."
Clem looks back and forth between them, raising the loose flesh where his eyebrows should be. "Ohhhh," he says. "Right. Sure, you guys need your privacy. To, um, to talk. Hey, don't mind me, I was leaving anyway." He gets to his feet, brushing crumbs from his chest, and lumbers loudly away. "Later," he calls, flashing a peace sign as he shuts the door.
Spike crosses his arms and gives Xander a disbelieving look. "Not in the biblical sense," he repeats slowly. "Oh, you are smooth, aren't you?"
"Shut up, I was flustered," Xander snaps. "Do you think he knows? About us?"
"What, with your quick talking? Never." Spike barks out a short, mocking laugh, but when he sees Xander's panicked expression, he adds, dryly, "Don't worry, Harris. Your secret's safe. Clem's not so stupid he'd tell tales on me; and besides, you two don't run in the same circles, now do you?"
Xander's tensed shoulders ease down a notch or two. "What was he doing here, anyway?"
"Oh, nothing, really. There's a card game sometimes, back of Willy's. Stopped off to let me know some bloke thinks I cheated him. Asking after me, apparently. Been making some threats."
Xander opens his mouth, but Spike cuts him off, exasperation creeping into his tone. "Yes, I cheated him, and no, he doesn't scare me in the least."
"That wasn't -- I was just gonna say, be careful, okay? I don't want to see you get hurt."
It takes an awful lot to surprise a century-old vampire; but Spike freezes, open-mouthed, gobsmacked. Staring with blue-eyed astonishment, as if Xander's turned up on his doorstep bearing flowers, or a beribboned bag of blood. Xander blinks back at him, equally stunned -- by his own blurted speech, and by how very much he meant it. Something shifts between them, invisibly, like atoms rearranging themselves. A change in the air, in the atmosphere, the quiet weight of a coming storm.
Xander clears his throat, studying a loose thread on his sleeve as if it's the most captivating loose thread that's ever existed in the history of loose thread. "Anyhow," he ventures, steering the conversation in no particular direction, but anywhere else would be fine, thank you. "That was nice of him. Clem. Watching your back like that."
"Clem's all right," Spike says, with quickly recovered aplomb. "Good for a laugh, and he brings his own snacks, but I thought I'd never be rid of him." He hooks a finger through Xander's belt loop, pulling him close, and drops his voice to a suggestive whisper. "Gone now, though, isn't he? And I'm wondering: do you want to spend the rest of the evening talking about Clem? Or did you have something else in mind?"
"Well," Xander says, lust erupting again like a geyser, "I kind of maybe had this idea."
Afterward, stretched out lazily, Xander thinks that life doesn't get much better than this. Crazy-hot, fantasy-surpassing sex, culminating in a brain-jellying orgasm, followed by Twinkies. And beer. In bed. He sighs contentedly around a big bite of fake cake and chemical cream. Which - oops -- makes for kind of a food-spitting mess. It's okay, though -- Spike isn't the type to fuss over crumbs in the sheets. It's probably never crossed his mind.
"Want some?" Xander asks, making sure to swallow first.
"Ta," Spike nods, taking one. He dips it into his mug, and it comes out crimson. He chews thoughtfully. "Hmm. Little sweet for my taste, but not half bad."
Spike slips out of bed and moves toward the makeshift shower, stopping on the way to put his lighter to a candle. It's a few moments before Xander notices that the candle is perched atop a skull; it's a few more before he notices that this observation doesn't wig him in the least. And apparently, his wig-o-meter is on the fritz, because Spike just ate a Twinkie dunked in blood, and that didn't wig him either. When did this become normal?
"Oi!"
Xander looks up as a damp towel hits him in the chest. He dabs at himself desultorily, distracted.
"Here," Spike says, snatching the towel back and taking over the job. Xander gazes at him, thinking, when, and how?
"Spike?" he asks.
"Hmmm?" Wipe, wipe, wipe.
"Do you ever think this is -- you know -- strange?"
Spike looks up sharply. "This?"
"You know -- human, vampire."
"It's hardly unprecedented," Spike says, something cautious in his voice. "Specially amongst your set. Not surprising, really -- dating pool in this town being what it is."
Xander mulls this over. He makes a quick mental list:
1. His bestest, oldest friend in the world has dated a werewolf and a witch.
2. His other best friend is still carrying the torch for a vampire who seesaws between guilty depression and homicidal mania.
3. He is presently involved with an ex-vengeance demon responsible for more death and mayhem than even Spike can shake a stick at. Plus, there's been Praying Mantis Lady, Mummy Girl, the Dark Mast -- okay, so not going there.
4. His parents are...with each other.
"Point," he concedes. "But, okay, what about me and you, specifically?" Xander waves a hand floppily between them. "You couldn't stand me before. Right?"
"Made my skin crawl," Spike agrees cheerfully.
"So then, what changed? What made you -- uh -- attracted to me?"
Spike chucks the towel to the floor. "Dunno, really. Don't second guess my cock, as a rule." He affects a sinister sneer, and the tone to match. "I follow my blood."
Xander nods, pausing for a moment to ponder. "Well, do you ever wonder why I'm attracted to you?"
Spike glances down pointedly at his naked self, and then up again. "No," he says, matter-of-factly.
Xander snorts. "Yes, it's your modesty that's so appealing." And then, sheepishly, "But again, point." And finally, "Seriously, though."
Spike tilts his head, brow furrowed, like he's really considering the question. He picks up the last of the Twinkies, and waggles it in Xander's direction. "This shite you eat like it's going out of style," he asks. "Why do you?"
"Um...because they're moist and delicious?"
"And?" Spike says, drawing out the word with exaggerated patience, like a teacher prompting a particularly dense student.
"And..." Xander muses. A few clueless seconds slip by before he gets it. "Because they're bad for me?"
"There you are!" Spike says, triumphantly, and the sneer stretches into a smile.
Point, Xander thinks, grinning back. And it's game, set, match.
Sometimes, in the drowsy candor of afterglow, Xander finds himself telling Spike stuff. He thinks it must be the orgasms, turning his mind to mush, which then dribbles uncontrollably from his mouth. Because it's private, what he talks about with Spike. Nothing earth-shattering or anything, but the kind of stuff you don't tell just anyone. The kind of stuff he hasn't told anyone. Like about how he worries, sometimes, that Willow's taken the magic thing a little too far. And about his mom's new habit of calling him, drunk and weepy, to warn him slurrily against repeating her "mistakes." About feeling like a fraud at work half the time, and the fear of getting caught. Spike takes it all in, occasionally offering a story of his own, asking a question here and there; but mostly murmuring in a quiet way that lets Xander know he's being heard.
He tells Spike stuff about Anya, too; and it's liberating, finally having someone to confide in. He's never been able to discuss her with the girls -- they agree with him too heartily, compelling him, resentfully, to defend her. But Spike lets him vent, listening with a bland, unreadable expression, never saying a word.
Xander's going on one night, about her latest brilliant plan, which is to sign them up for ceramics classes.
"Ceramics," he harps, incredulously. "As if I have time for ceramics, between work and patrol. And even if there was time, why ceramics? Have I ever expressed an interest in pots, or clay, or, Jesus, crafts? It's like she's trying to find ways to bug the crap out of me. Like she's doing it on purpose, and she -- "
"Leave off," Spike says, his flinty tone startling Xander into silence. "Christ, Harris. I wonder, sometimes, if you're really as dim as you seem. Silly cow loves you, doesn't she? Scared you don't feel the same. Trying to make things work, is all. Not her fault you're at sixes and sevens. Not her fault that you're -- " He stops himself, abruptly. Xander looks up, catching the tail end of a complex, knotted expression on Spike's face. But it's gone before he can untangle it, face impenetrable again. Xander's not sure what Spike was about to say, but the unspoken words hang heavily in the air, like something corrosive and damning waiting to come between them.
Spike must sense it, too, because he doesn't complete the thought, averting his eyes and muttering, "Doesn't want to lose you, is all. Just trying to hold on."
And something is very, very wrong with this picture. Spike isn't shutting him up out of mere impatience, or disinterest. That would make sense -- sometimes Xander annoys himself, what with all the bitching and moaning. But it feels, to him, like Spike is angry, actually angry, and on Anya's behalf. And this, he doesn't understand -- that Spike should take Anya's side. That Spike should even care.
Except that -- and God, he really is dim, isn't he? Because Spike's been there, done that. Spike's walked in Anya's shoes; walked in them for a hundred years. A hundred years trying to keep hold of someone who hadn't loved him quite enough. Who'd eluded his grasp in the end. Who'd left him heart-sick and shattered. It's empathy Spike has for Anya, and Xander's never even considered this possibility: that such a thing could exist in the absence of a soul. Everything he's ever learned about demons tells him it can't. But it seems he's been wrong. The proof's right there, lying next to him in bed, like an answer to a question that he hadn't known to ask.
Spike is still mumbling, something about feeling peckish, and does Xander want anything from upstairs. Xander watches him cross the room, naked, unselfconscious, mounting the ladder with the easy grace of an animal or an athlete. He thinks he could watch Spike climb ladders all day, and never get bored.
Spike's halfway through the door, visible only from the waist down, when he pauses.
"Do you love her?" he asks, sounding far off.
The question should have an unequivocal, yes-no answer -- and the answer should be yes. But it turns out to be more of a multiple choice thing, or maybe an essay, and Xander hesitates, carefully considering which response is most accurate. He wants to get it right. Spike's never asked him anything like this before. Spike's asked nothing of him, really, beyond his body, and a few hours each week; and the least Xander can do is tell him the truth.
"Of course I do," he says, thoughtfully, a quiet moment later. "But...that doesn't solve our problems."
"No," Spike agrees, words echoing hollowly, like stones dropped down a well. "It doesn't solve a thing." Then he steps up, and up, and up, until he's out of sight.
Part 5: http://baudown.livejournal.com/8801.html