Modus VivendiBy Wiseacress
Chapter Ten
He woke up some time later on the couch. His back hurt and his knees gave up a hot dull ache. He was lying on his left side, and when he tried to sit up his right shoulder screamed.
“Fuck—” He gasped and reeled, clenching against the pain. For a moment he was afraid he would throw up, but he swallowed hard and it passed.
What time was it? The Demerol had worn off, he had to piss, he was freezing. He had to take the pills.
The bottles were on the table in front of him. He’d never appreciated before how good it was to have Liv taking care of him. Making sure he took the fucking things on time, making sure he didn’t get gangrene. Now that he was taking care of himself, the bottles had his full attention.
He grabbed the Demerol and immediately realized that he couldn’t open it one-handed. It was child-proof. He sat staring at it dumbly.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
He shook it, as if that would do anything, then looked around the loft. What time was it? Where was Spike? If it was night already and Spike was out, he was done for.
The television was still on—still soccer—but the sound was turned off. Xander shifted and craned his neck painfully, and saw the edge of Spike’s foot under the sheets on his bed. The bastard was asleep.
“Hey.” He meant to yell, but it came out a dry croak. His throat was dry as chalk. He tried again. “Hey!” Not much better.
“Spike—wake the fuck up, you asshole. “ He sounded weak, raw, damaged. It was just because he’d just woken up, his throat was dry, but it was kind of alarming all the same. Breakdown lane, yeah.
Spike hadn’t moved. The bastard could hear paint dry when he was awake, but he could sleep through a Baptist revival. Xander realized he was starting to gasp, and stopped trying to yell. It was stupid. He was being stupid. All he had to do was get up and go over, just wake the bastard up with a smack upside the head. Nothing to panic about. Easy.
Okay.
He swung his legs out and put his feet on the floor, tested them and winced. Was it worse than yesterday? Was he getting worse—could he be getting an infection?
Stop that shit. Go wake up the dead guy.
He grabbed the couch arm and pushed to his feet, swayed in outer space for a moment, then seized hold of consciousness and clung. His legs were freaking. Fuck them. He had to piss anyway, he had to get up. Could he make it to the head on his own?
Moot point. Pills first.
He had the bottles in his right hand, cradled inside the sling. He made it around the couch by leaning on it, then started across the Sahara of floor toward the bed. There was broken glass in his knees. He wavered, lost his balance, compensated, and came down heavily on his right foot. The knee screamed. He stopped and doubled over, his eyes squeezed shut, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
Jesus fucking Christ. He missed Liv.
When the roar stopped he continued on, cussing Spike under his breath continuously. He couldn’t yell now; he needed all his breath for walking. Was this what it was like to be old? Really old, not Giles-type old, but old where you couldn’t walk or sit or breathe without pain?
If he ever got out of here, he was going to volunteer at a retirement home. He’d be kind and patient with all the old farts, and they’d love him to pieces. Their handsome young Xander, such a fine pleasant young man, so sympathetic. He’d get a fucking plaque.
He was almost there.
Spike’s bare foot was sticking out past the edge of the mattress, and he was lying on his stomach with his arms spread out and his face planted in the sheets. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was crumpled on the floor at the side of the bed—Liv won’t be picking that up anytime soon, Xander’s brain muttered mechanically—and his jeans were beside it. He was naked again.
Xander couldn’t have cared less.
He made it to the foot of the bed and half-fell down onto it, narrowly missing Spike’s foot. He was back in outer space, little lights orbiting his head and wheeling between his ears. His legs were burning. He was going to pass out.
Spike sat up with open eyes and stared at him. For a moment he didn’t seem to know who Xander was; then recognition came over his face and he smiled. It was a pleased sleepy smile.
Xander threw the bottles against his chest. “Open those, asshole,” he said. His voice sounded like dry wheat.
He saw the smile go like a letter wiped off a blackboard. It didn’t signify. He could barely see; his hands and feet were freezing. He propped his head on his hand and tried to stop shaking.
He might have gone out for a few seconds; he didn’t hear Spike get out of bed, but he felt the cool hands lift his head up and put the pills in his mouth, then give him water to drink. He drank as much as he could and felt better. He came back to the world with a wet chin and ringing ears.
Spike was sitting next to him on the bed, holding half a glass of water and looking at him.
“All right?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say Fuck you, but he needed to piss and he couldn’t get there by himself. He closed his eyes.
“I need the head.”
“Sure.” Spike stood up and started to take his arm. Xander realized with a dull shock—he seemed incapable of feeling any more by now—that Spike was still naked.
“Aw, Christ.” He turned his face away. “Put something on.”
Spike paused, put the glass down on the floor, and walked over to where his jeans were. There was the sound of fabric and a zipper. Then silence.
“Want me to put a shirt on too?”
He couldn’t tell whether Spike was fucking with him or not, but assumed he was. He didn’t bother to answer, but turned and started to lever himself up in Spike’s direction, not looking directly at him.
Spike got an arm under him and skimmed him over the floor to the bathroom. It wasn’t like being hauled by Liv—it was fast and neat and seemed to take just seconds and no effort at all. He pushed the door open and carried Xander to the urinals. Xander pulled weakly against his grip.
“I’m okay from here.”
“You just pitched a fit—”
“Spike—” There was an edge of real hysteria in his voice. He was too cold and tired and angry to take anything else. He was shaking like a feather.
Spike let him go and went out without another word, and he pissed in a hurry, before he could pass out into the basin. He flushed and Spike came back in and hauled him out. He caught a glimpse of himself on the way—he was white as paper, and the bruises were blue.
He expected to go back to the cot, but Spike hauled him back to the other end of the room, towards the couch. It wasn’t as comfortable and he tried to say so, but it seemed too complicated to express. They passed Spike’s bed, and Spike dropped him into it.
He sat dumbly on the edge for a minute, not saying anything, not understanding. For some reason he expected Spike to pick him up again and continue on to the couch. But Spike just stepped back and looked at him.
After a moment it sank in, and he started to get up.
“No—no, I’m on the—”
Spike reached out and pushed him down with a finger. He hit the mattress and bounced.
“Go to sleep,” Spike said. “You look dead.”
“I’m not—” sleeping in your bed—he wanted to say, but his lips felt numb and Spike picked up his feet and put them on the bed. The mattress was softer than the cot or the couch, and it was big. The pillows were clean and cool.
He was in Spike’s bed.
He wasn’t sleeping here.
He tried to sit up. Spike pushed him down, and when he tried to rear up anyway his abdomen felt sliced. He lay still for a second with his eyes closed, breathing against the pain.
A cool hand came down on his forehead, and he jerked. Spike was standing there, looking at him oddly, his hand on Xander’s forehead. The same hand as that night, whenever it was, when he had let it stay and then clung to the wrist as he fell asleep. This was who it had been, and how it had looked. It had been Spike, and of course he knew that already, but he wasn’t ready to think it, and he wasn’t ready to look up and see Spike standing beside him, owning the cool hand, looking down at him.
He made a strangled little noise, punched Spike’s hand away, and jerked upright, ignoring the slash in his belly. He wanted to get up and run, get out, kick the shit out of something, never see this place or Spike or himself again. He hugged his knees, burying his face in the pain, gulping air in huge sobbing gasps.
“Fuck off,” he heard himself say. “I can’t—I can’t. I can’t.” He said it over and over, and his voice was like torn paper.
“Can’t what?” Spike was standing a step or two back from the bed, looking at him inscrutably.
His teeth were chattering. He was freezing, but he was sweating too—his sides were clammy. Everything hurt. How could everything hurt? It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t asked for any of this.
“I can’t,” he repeated. “I can’t. Fuck off, will you? I can’t.”
Spike didn’t say anything for a while, and slowly Xander got control of himself. He fell silent and let go of his knees, felt himself begin to sink a little into the Demerol. He was still shaking, and his teeth were still chattering, but he didn’t feel so cold somehow.
“Can’t what?” Spike asked again at some point, and he said, “I don’t know.” He didn’t.
He was lying down, and the sheets were over his back. He felt warmer. He could hear a soccer game being announced. Crowds were cheering. It was dark. He fell asleep again.
He woke up because he smelled food. Maybe Chinese again, maybe something else. Whatever it was, it had been communicating with his stomach for a while before he regained consciousness. He was fucking ravenous.
The loft was dark, but he could hear Spike moving around, making dish noises. He just had time to wonder whether Spike was actually cooking, when a light clicked on in the kitchen and he saw the takeout containers. It was a relief. Somehow he couldn’t bear the thought of Spike cooking for him.
Spike was wearing jeans and the same black T-shirt he’d had on before, and his coat was back in the middle of the floor. He’d been out, obviously. He was opening drawers, rummaging through with an annoyed expression. Finally he came up with a spoon and bashed the drawers closed with his hip.
Xander sat up and was surprised to find himself in Spike’s bed. Then he remembered, and felt a rush of shame. He’d had hysterics. He’d cried. He’d fainted. And he was in Spike’s bed.
He swallowed and edged to the side of the bed, testing to see how his body was holding up. His stomach burned, his shoulder ached. His knees were fairly quiet, but when he put his feet on the floor and tested them they yipped. So basically, it was all still shot.
He felt a little better, though—less shaky, warmer, not as out of breath. He still had Demerol in his blood, and he’d slept better in the bed—Spike’s bed—than he had in days. Fucking hell, he was in Spike’s bed.
He thought again of his tantrum, and blushed. Why had he done that? He remembered the hand on his head and winced. Had he misinterpreted it? Maybe Spike was just checking to see if he had a fever.
Sure.
He knew better, but not much better. Not much better at all, really. He didn’t know what was going on with his own dreams, or with Spike’s hand on his forehead, or with the chip, or with Liv. All he knew for sure was that he was stuck here.
And he was hungry.
Spike was walking toward him with a plastic takeout tub and the spoon. The smell was coming too, and Xander’s mouth went wet.
“Hungry?”
Dumb question. “Yeah,” he said, and it came out in a whisper. He frowned and Spike half-smiled.
“Sound like Melanie Griffith.”
“Fuck you.”
“Sultry.”
He didn’t say anything. For some reason the joke didn’t bother him—it was too dumb to feel like a come-on of any kind. But he didn’t want to talk more and encourage it.
He raised his eyebrows at the tub and Spike peeled off the lid and pitched it to the floor. “Thai soup. Hope you’re partial.”
He made a gimme gesture with his hand and Spike put the tub down on the bedside table, next to the lamp. He dropped the spoon in and stepped away.
“Bon appétit.”
Xander edged over to it and picked up the spoon carefully. His hand was pretty steady again, and he managed okay with it. The soup was delicious—hot, sour, and salty, with rounds of ginger and carrot floating in it. As soon as he tasted it he knew he should have been eating it all along.
He put the spoon down and turned to say thank you, but Spike was already walking away to the television. He said it anyway, and went back to the soup.
“You’re welcome,” Spike said in a bored voice, flipping channels.
He finished half the tub and had to stop. His stomach must have shrunk. He put the spoon down reluctantly and looked around. Spike was still watching soccer—a different match now, it seemed like—with his back turned.
“What time is it?” Xander asked.
“Night,” Spike said.
Xander wiped his face and looked regretfully at the soup again. Liv had been gone for less than twenty-four hours, and he’d already pitched a fit and ended up in Spike’s bed. This wasn’t going so well.
“Spike.” Spike’s head didn’t turn, but Xander knew he could hear. “I’ll take the couch again.”
Spike lifted the remote and pointed it back over his shoulder without looking, and the kitchen light clicked off. Neat trick. Now the loft was totally dark except for the light from the television screen.
“Give me a hand over, will you?” No response. “Please.”
Nothing. He sighed.
“Fucking hell, Spike. I want the couch. Please. Thank you. Now.”
“Go to sleep, tosser.”
“Couch, Spike. Now.”
Spike dropped the remote and turned to stare at him with annoyance. “You won’t catch anything sleeping in there, you know.”
“It’s your bed, you have it. I’ll take the couch.”
“Wanker.”
He started to heave himself up from the edge of the bed, trembling as the pain cranked up. Spike shook his head and watched him catch his balance, then finally got up, walked over fast, grabbed him, and hauled him back to the couch. It took less than ten seconds, and Xander had to blink a couple of times to clear his head.
“Happy?”
“Delirious,” he whispered.
The ball went back and forth, and the crowd cheered, and Spike sat in the armchair and frowned. Xander glanced back over his shoulder into the darkness. The tub of soup was still on the bedside table, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to ask Spike to deliver it.
The match broke for ads, and Spike kept staring at the screen. Xander had the impression that Spike’s attention wasn’t really on the television, although he was looking at it fiercely.
“Not going out tonight?” he asked.
Spike looked at him with irritation. “Got a tyke at home to look after, don’t I?”
He stared at his legs without responding. The bandage on his knee was getting a little loose and worn. He fingered the tape.
“Where’d Liv go?”
“Vatican City.”
“She said Disneyland.”
“That’s right, Disneyland.”
“Uh-huh.”
There was a silence. Xander caught the tail end of a passing train of thought: watching this soccer match with Spike was the closest thing he’d had in years to hanging out with a guy friend. It almost made him smile.
“Hey, Spike?”
“Yeah.”
“This mystery person—”
“Yeah.”
“Did you send Liv out to find him?”
Spike gave a curt laugh.
“Christ, no. Waste of a good lackey.”
“Lackey?”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Figure of speech, brainchild. I told you, she works for me.”
“Yeah,” Xander said. “I know. I told her Buffy could cut her loose and she basically told me to stuff it.”
Spike stared at him.
“See?” Xander said. “Eminently surprise-able.”
Spike snorted and turned back to the television.
Xander watched the ball go back and forth, and listened to Spike insult the umpire or whatever it was, and tried not to think. His brain felt full.
He was warm and he didn’t hurt much, he wasn’t hungry, and he’d be sleepy soon but wasn’t just yet. Why did he want to start a conversation with Spike? Because he was trying to figure out what was going on. Because it was normal, a normal thing to do. Because it felt good to talk to someone.
Still. Pretty weird behavior for a guy who’d just had a fit because Spike had touched his head. His head, after all. It wasn’t exactly an erogenous zone.
Wasn’t supposed to be, anyway.
If he closed his eyes he’d be able to feel Spike’s hand on his forehead, cool and firm, and he wanted to feel it again. He did. It was ridiculous. It shocked him. He glanced over at Spike’s hand, which was lying on the armchair cushion, and thought he knew exactly how it would feel on his head, or his jaw, or his shoulder. He’d dreamed it already.
“I’m sorry about before,” he said, without realizing he was going to. It came out too quiet, but that didn’t matter. He knew Spike heard it. As soon as he’d said it, his heart started to race and he blushed painfully. And Spike would know that, too.
Spike turned his head to look at him, and he didn’t ask what Xander meant, because he knew. Must know. What was going on? He was insane. There was no way out of this. He couldn’t let it alone, couldn’t stop picking at it, and he couldn’t handle it when it turned on him.
Spike didn’t move for a minute; then he stood suddenly and Xander felt a surge of panic. He opened his mouth to stammer something, some diversion, but Spike was walking away into the gloom. Xander sat with his heart in his ears, clutching the sofa cushion and feeling like a total idiot.
After a moment, Spike came back with a bottle and two glasses. He put them on the table and sat on the couch beside Xander. Not close enough to touch, just close enough to pour.
Xander checked the label—Macallan’s. Looked like whiskey, and looked like good. Better than Kentucky Straight, anyway. Better than CC, too.
Spike uncapped the bottle and poured two glasses—small ones. He shoved one toward Xander, took the other, and leaned back to put his feet on the table.
“Thanks.” He snared the glass with a finger; from the corner of his eye, he saw Spike tip his glass in an offhand salute. He tipped his back and sipped carefully. It was good smooth powerful stuff, an infinitely better version of the lifeblood of the Harris household. His belly accepted it gratefully and in a minute he was even warmer.
He knew he shouldn’t drink—Demerol, red-and-yellows—but he’d spent most of his adolescence on codeine, he knew what he could and couldn’t do. Sorry, Liv. Have fun at Epcot.
The ball went into the net but the whistle went at the same time and everyone was angry.
“What’s going on?”
“Offside.”
“What’s that?”
Spike looked at him. “Means the bloke who scored was behind the defense when he got the ball. That’s offside, it’s illegal.”
“Oh.” He sipped and watched. There was another goal, and this time it counted. A man was kicked and lay writhing on the field. Xander watched for a moment, then suddenly felt ill and looked away. Spike glanced at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
It was too much like himself, like Bony Nose’s boot slamming into his knee and his screaming and hanging and screaming. None of it going anywhere, because of the tape. His palms were damp and he finished his glass in one swallow to kill the tightness in his chest.
“They’re all actors anyhow,” Spike said. “Roll around on the grass like women, hoping for a penalty.”
The player was carried off on a stretcher, and the referee flashed something yellow at the sidelines.
“What’s—”
“I’m not a fucking See n’ Say, am I?”
Xander fell silent. Spike finished his glass, leaned forward, and poured them both another.
Xander reached forward and hooked his, sipped it, then set it down.
“Spike,” he said. “What’s going on?”
Spike didn’t answer for a minute. He stared at the television and again he didn’t seem to be seeing it. He lifted the remote and clicked it off, and they sat in darkness.
Xander’s heart went crazy, and he had to struggle to breathe. Suddenly he was terrified. He felt like he hadn’t felt in months, like he used to feel when the Scoobies were coming up against something profoundly bad. They all felt the same way. Like they were totally alive, and about to die at any moment.
“What do you think is going on?” Spike asked. His voice was calm and perfectly controlled.
Xander gaped for a moment. Then all of a sudden he didn’t care; just didn’t care, and talking around the subject seemed idiotic. “Fuck this, Spike,” he said. “What do I think is going on? Fuck, I think—you put your hand on my head. Not just, I don’t mean just now, I mean before. At night. You came back there and— And you were going to kiss me. I mean after, in the chair. I’m not an idiot, Spike. I know it when I see it.”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say and so he stopped before he started repeating himself. There was a silence. For a moment he stared grimly into the darkness, listening to his heart pound and waiting to hear whatever was going to come next. Nothing came.
Maybe he’d been wrong all along, it was nothing, it was just his own fucked-up Freudian dreamscape, and now Spike was going to laugh and laugh…
Spike didn’t laugh. He didn’t speak or move, and the silence went on in the darkness until Xander was sure he’d been wrong, and Spike wasn’t laughing because it wasn’t funny, it was sad and kind of sick, and now Spike was going to offer to take him back to the cot and that would be it.
“Fuck, Spike—” His voice came out too weak, too raw. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and tried not to think about the fact that Spike could see perfectly well in the dark.
“What do you want, Xander?”
He froze.
Spike didn’t move or say anything else. His voice was still smooth and even, calmer than Xander usually heard it.
What did he want? Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?
If Spike was just fucking with him, he was already in too deep to get out. He’d just said something that was pretty hard to smooth over and forget about. It wouldn’t kill him to keep going with it a little longer, since he was already sunk.
And if he was right, the hand on his head did mean something, and it still didn’t add up to anything he understood, but that wasn’t the question. The question was, what did he want?
What did he want?
“I don’t know,” he said quietly, closing his eyes because it was making an admission he couldn’t withdraw.
Spike said nothing. After a moment of silence it was clear that it wasn’t enough not to know. You either wanted or you didn’t. He didn’t say it but it hung there in the darkness between them.
What do you want?
He wanted—he didn’t know, honestly didn’t know. He’d never dealt with it before, couldn’t properly imagine what it was. If Spike was a girl, he’d know what he wanted. But Spike wasn’t a girl. And that wasn’t the whole problem; in some ways, it didn’t even feel like much of the problem.
“I don’t know,” he said again, with more strength. “Fuck, what do you want from me? How the hell should I know?”
“You don’t know what you want?” Spike’s voice was lazy and amused.
“Yes, I fucking know what I want—” He stopped short. He did know, of course. It wasn’t something specific, something he could name out loud, but he knew what he wanted. A cool hand, a back to press his forehead to. Bright untrustworthy eyes.
“I want—” He took a deep breath and let it out shakily. “I want—yes. I—I don’t know how to say it, but…yes.”
As soon as he said it, he felt lighter. It was a cliché, but he felt a weight go. He smiled.
He heard Spike move, and there was a cool hand on the back of his neck, and another under his jaw, holding his chin, tipping his head gently back.
Spike kissed him.
It wasn’t like his dream—Spike’s mouth was cool, and he curled his fingers into Xander’s hair and tugged while his mouth moved open over Xander’s lips. Xander smiled, couldn’t stop smiling. He couldn’t see a thing, and that made it easier. He smiled into Spike’s mouth and let Spike kiss him.
He tasted like whiskey. Whiskey and his own skin and mouth, his tongue, the way he smelled. Xander wanted to laugh out loud, and after a minute or two he did.
Spike was smiling too, he could feel it.
“What’s funny?”
“Fuck, nothing.”
He brought his left hand up carefully and touched the back of Spike’s head. His hair was soft. Only thing about him that was. No, his tongue. He shifted and put a leg over Xander’s, and then he was kneeling with a leg on either side of Xander, not putting any weight on him, but holding his shoulder with one hand and the nape of his neck with the other, kissing him. Xander had a feeling of butterflies in his stomach, of pure delight. He ran his fingers down the back of Spike’s neck and Spike kissed him deeper.
It went for a while, and then he started laughing again and couldn’t stop. It was the tension, the sudden release of it, and also the absurd feeling of necking on the couch in the dark like teenagers. He sensed that he had to be careful with that, couldn’t think too much about the absurdity or anything else. Right now he could only be here in the darkness, kissing and feeling this delight.
Spike leaned away to let him laugh, and immediately Xander wanted to pull him close again. It was so strange to feel someone so cool. He’d never kissed anyone with cool skin before. Cordelia, Willow, Anya—maybe women were warmer. Of course, they all had the advantage of being alive.
Another avenue of thought to avoid.
Spike leaned farther away and Xander heard him pick up one of the glasses and drink from it. He put out his hand and Spike put the glass in it.
“Are you getting me drunk?”
“No.”
He smiled and drank, rested his head against the back of the couch with the glass against his chest. After a moment Spike’s hand came down and went through his hair and gently down the side of his face. He turned his face into Spike’s palm and caught the heel of it between his teeth. He worried it lightly for a second, then let go.
Spike came down fast in response to that, a hand on each side of his face and a mouth opening his lips. Spike’s tongue was in his mouth. He tipped his head back and let his mouth fall open, let Spike kiss his lips and pull his tongue into Spike’s own mouth. Their teeth met and he smiled even wider.
He could feel his pulse everywhere, through his whole body, and the pain he still felt didn’t matter anymore. He was hot, he must be flushed, he could feel heat coming off his face. He wanted to touch Spike’s hair, his neck, but he had the glass in his hand. Spike made a low noise and pushed his head back against the couch.
“Fuck, wait—” He held the glass up and Spike took it and just dropped it on the floor, by the sound of it. His hand was free, and he reached up again to touch Spike’s neck. Amazing.
Spike pushed his head back down into the couch and leaned over him, turning his face and kissing him. His whole body was trembling again, he couldn’t keep still. His hand on Spike’s back was shaking. After a moment Spike stopped and pulled away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Why’re you shaking like that?”
“Can’t help it.” He reached out to pull Spike back, tilting his head to be kissed again. His hand connected with something cold and metallic. Spike’s belt buckle.
He let it go as if it had burnt him. He’d just grabbed Spike’s belt. He hadn’t meant to do that, hadn’t even thought about it, had meant to catch his shirt or his side and pull him down. Grabbing a guy’s belt was something else entirely.
Like it made a difference, at this point.
He was blushing again, even more flushed than before, and before he could stop himself, he whispered, “Sorry.”
“Why?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head helplessly, even more embarrassed by his own apology. “Nothing, nothing, I just—” He really wished that Spike couldn’t see so fucking clearly in the dark.
“You can do that, you know.”
He blushed harder and looked elsewhere in the darkness, where Spike wasn’t. “Yeah, whatever.”
A cool hand came down and touched his forehead. “You’re toasty.”
He closed his eyes and leaned into the hand. After a moment he felt cooler again and he smiled sheepishly and turned his cheek into the palm.
“Nice smile.”
He was embarrassed, which made him smile more, and he leaned his head back and reached up, carefully this time, and found Spike’s neck.
“Shut up, asshole,” he said, and tugged, and Spike came down and kissed him again. Gently at first, the tip of Spike’s tongue on his lips and then between them, opening his mouth, then harder and more insistently.
Xander moaned, and Spike’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
Spike’s tongue was in his mouth, pushing over his tongue, and he didn’t know what it meant exactly but it made him push his hips up and forward. He didn’t mean to do it; it just happened. His cock was fully erect, trapped inside his boxer shorts, rubbing a wet spot down one side of the crotch. He wanted to brace his heels on the floor to get more push. Spike hadn’t put any weight on him; there was nothing touching him at all. He squirmed and moaned again, and Spike drove his tongue hard into Xander’s mouth, and Xander gasped, “Fuck.”
It was sex, but Spike wasn’t touching him, just kissing him, and Xander couldn’t even see him. It made him feel like he’d had sex all wrong before. Not that it was wrong with girls, just that he hadn’t understood the nature of it at all. This was different, it was a feeling of giddy delight and license and self-abandon, a willingness to open his legs and his mouth and touch and be touched. Kiss and be kissed.
He reached lower and touched Spike’s belt again. Just the belt, and his courage made his own cock jump so hard he lost his breath. He slid his hand around and felt Spike’s hips beneath his jeans, strong and hard. He’d seen them before. He’d seen all of Spike, just this afternoon. Somehow it hadn’t been the same.
He put his hand on Spike’s back, the strong small of his back that was all muscle with the bone beneath. Spike didn’t move, just kept kissing him and moving his tongue over Xander’s tongue, hard and soft and wet. He pulled back for a moment and ran his hand over Xander’s face, lightly over the bruises and stitches. Xander had forgotten them, but Spike’s touch reminded him and for a second he was embarrassed.
“Close your eyes, will you?” he said.
“No.”
“Come on, it’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“I can’t see you, you can see me.”
“And you want me to close my eyes?”
He grimaced. “I look like shit. Come on.”
Spike laughed. “Do you really think I’m having trouble?” he asked.
A cool hand took hold of Xander’s and put it, before he could react, on Spike’s crotch. His cock was a pole beneath his jeans, and it leapt at Xander’s touch.
Xander leapt too, with embarrassment and lust, and tried to pull away. Spike’s hand held his there, stroked it twice up and down the shaft, and Xander’s head dropped back into the cushion.
“Oh my God—” he whispered. He was shaking again. Spike started to rub their hands along his cock again, and he felt a jolt in his own cock, sweet and painful. He tried again to pull away. “Stop—hang on, stop. I’m going to—”
Spike let his hand go and didn’t touch him. He lay shuddering, his eyes closed, trying to swallow. Liposuction. Mrs. Parmenter.
Spike leaned away again and found the other glass. After a minute Xander held up his hand without opening his eyes, and Spike put the glass into it. Xander drank and coughed.
“Better?”
He nodded and held the glass out, his eyes watering. Spike made it disappear.
For a couple of minutes they just stayed like that, Xander sprawled back against the cushion staring into darkness, and Spike somewhere over him, a leg on either side. After a while a cool finger dragged down Xander’s cheek, and he reached out without looking and ran his own fingers down Spike’s chest and stomach.
Xander laughed slightly, and Spike kissed him.
“Fuck,” Xander said. “Fuck, this is—” He didn’t finish, but wrapped his arm around Spike’s neck and pulled him in, kissed him hard and deep. He wanted— He didn’t know. He wanted to be naked with Spike, body to body with him, even if his own body was a pretty crappy model. If it didn’t bother Spike, it shouldn’t bother Xander.
He kept kissing, kept opening his mouth to Spike’s tongue, but started unbuttoning his shirt. It was only half-done anyway, because of his shoulder. He got most of it on his own and Spike helped him get it off the bad arm. The air was cool on his chest and stomach. Spike kissed him, pulled him forward to kiss him harder, and Xander went loose all over. He’d let Spike do anything. Anything he wanted, with a blessing and a smile.
He was smiling again, still shivering but grinning like a fool, and they bumped teeth again, which brought back the dream. I dreamed this, he almost said, but stopped himself.
Spike licked his bottom lip and it tickled. He smiled. His hand was tucked into Spike’s waistband, although he couldn’t remember putting it there. He wasn’t embarrassed by it now; they were beyond that. Spike’s tongue slipped into his mouth and he opened his lips, felt Spike start the same rhythm as before, and felt his own hips rise helplessly in response. It was fucking, he realized—Spike’s tongue was fucking his mouth. It sent a rush of blood to his cock and face.
The thought made him wonder suddenly what it would be like to have Spike’s cock in his mouth, not just his tongue. To have Spike really fucking his mouth. The thought both scared him and made him moan with lust, and his cock jerked and leaked into his shorts. He wondered if that was going to happen, if that was perhaps what happened next. Could he do that? He thought about how Spike’s cock had felt against his hand, how just touching it had almost made him come. Yes, he could that. He could that with a smile, and he could let Spike do that to him.
The thought of Spike’s mouth on his cock made him gasp for air. He had to wrestle free for a moment to breathe.
Spike didn’t ask this time, and he didn’t pause long. He let Xander get a breath, and then he pulled him back in and started kissing him again, stroking his mouth with his tongue while Xander’s good hand hung helplessly clenched in midair and his heels fought for purchase on the floor. He was thrusting blindly now, not caring that Spike could see him, just responding to the rhythm in his mouth. Spike’s hips were moving too, and he was leaning deep into Xander, his arms braced in the cushions on either side of Xander’s head. He made another noise, low and wordless, and it hit Xander like a train. He moaned and fought to raise his hips.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Spike—”
He got the words out in a half-strangled rasp, and Spike reacted immediately. He raised up, lifted one leg, and pushed Xander down on his back on the couch. Xander couldn’t see, could only feel himself being lifted and moved, and then he was lying down with Spike still overtop of him, straddling him and still not touching him. Xander jerked his hips up and made contact. His cock was out of the shorts now, and he pressed it hard against Spike’s jeans.
“Spike—”
He wanted a hand, and he got one light touch, cool fingers and palm around his cock, rubbing him once up and down and then pushing him away just as he thought he’d explode. He opened his mouth to complain and Spike came down fast, pushed Xander’s head roughly to the side, and fastened to his neck.
The feeling was electric—incredible. He bucked and his knees screamed, and he couldn’t breathe. The feeling of Spike’s teeth in his neck was pure sex, sex undiluted, just give and take and rough possession and he fought against it instinctively. Spike grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down hard into the couch, and Xander screamed as his shoulder ground out white sparks, but it didn’t matter. He was still bucking, felt a hot sweet guttering in his cock, and knew he was coming. His hands were locked around Spike’s shoulders. He felt yanked inside out, opened and shaken out like a pouch.
He kept shivering and pushing until Spike’s lips left his neck, and he started to lick the wound. They lay wrapped together, body to body, in the darkness. Xander felt exploded and dull, stupid and happy and unsure, and slightly guilty until he shifted and realized that Spike had come too.
His shoulder started to hurt first. He bore it for a while, then poked Spike in the side and tried to sit up.
He couldn’t do it.
His abdomen wouldn’t take his weight—it hurt like hell and shook like a branch when he tried to sit up. He rolled onto his side instead, but it was his right side, and the jolt in his shoulder knocked him off the couch.
He hit the floor hard on his good side and yelped, but immediately pushed himself up into a sitting position. His crotch was cold and wet, and he was buzzing all over.
“Holy fuck,” he said, and started to laugh.
Spike’s hand came out of the darkness and touched his head lightly, and he jumped, then leaned back against the couch. Spike’s fingers curled in the hair at his neck and tugged gently.
“Holy fuck,” he said again, still laughing. Spike leaned forward, turned his head, and kissed him. He closed his eyes and let it happen. He couldn’t feel his hands.
Spike’s mouth wandered down his jaw to his neck, and soon he was nuzzling there, just above the shelf of Xander’s collarbone. His mouth was cool and wet, and from the way his tongue worked, Xander guessed there was blood. He couldn’t feel much except for Spike’s mouth. His shoulder ached, and there was a strange warm sensation in his knees, but everything else was darkness and quiet and the feeling of Spike’s tongue carefully cleaning his neck.
He had no idea how long he sat there, blind and drugged with the feeling. He was willing to let it go on forever. The room would be dark and Spike’s hand would be cool on his shoulder, his mouth would be cool on his neck, and Xander’s body would cease to exist. While Spike’s mouth was on him, he felt no pain. All the ache and stab disappeared, the burning was tamped down to a glow, and he didn’t feel sick or cold or scared. He was quiet and sleepy and happy, and he let his fingers go through Spike’s hair, pulled his head close, and let him do whatever he wanted.
Finally, Spike pulled away.
Xander’s neck was suddenly naked and cold, and he tried to pull Spike back. Spike shrugged him off.
“Hey—”
“That’s enough.”
“Come back.”
Spike didn’t answer, just ran his fingers quickly over Xander’s head and got up. Xander was left alone on the floor in darkness, wearing nothing but wet boxer shorts.
The warmth in his knees was cycling up fast into a hot ache, and his shoulder was throbbing. His whole body hurt. He remembered Spike pushing him down into the couch and winced. He was shivering, too. Somehow he hadn’t noticed until now.
He gathered his legs underneath him and pushed himself up onto the couch. The effort made his head spin and pound, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He started to fall sideways and jerked upright at the last moment. His sense of direction was fucked, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Where was his shirt? He was freezing.
He found the shirt with shaking hands, and got his left arm through. He couldn’t button it.
There was something wet on his neck, and he wiped it absently, then paused when his hand came away wet and warm. Blood. He was bleeding from the neck. Of course he was, Spike had bitten him.
Spike had bitten him.
His heart went into overdrive and he wiped at his neck again, holding his hand in front of his face as if he could see it. Spike had bitten him. And hurt him. That shove down into the couch—that had hurt, even under the circumstances. It should have given Spike an aneurysm to do that. But it hadn’t.
He was still caught up in the shock of that realization when another one hit him—he’d let Spike bite him. He’d let a vampire bite him. Not just let it happen—wanted it. Practically demanded. He’d sat here on the floor with Spike attached to his neck like a tick, and he’d liked it. He’d tried to pull Spike back when he withdrew.
The tap went on in the kitchen and he turned, forgetting he couldn’t see. Suddenly the darkness wasn’t comfortable or welcome anymore. He heard Spike move somewhere on the other side of the room and his neck prickled.
When he’d said yes, was this what he’d agreed to?
He wanted to ask for light but he didn’t want to call out into the darkness. It felt too vulnerable. He pulled his shirt closed around his chest and thought about trying to stand—but what then? His shorts clung cold and sticky to his legs, and he flinched.
Spike’s footsteps came back toward him and he felt a flash of panic. If the chip wasn’t working, he’d just had the world’s most expensive orgasm. He couldn’t see, couldn’t fight, could hardly move without falling over. Spike could spread his innards all the way to Monterey.
He sat frozen, listening to Spike’s footsteps as if he could tell something from them. Nothing except that Spike was barefoot. Not useful information, really.
Spike came around the couch and set a glass down on the table. Xander swallowed and searched the darkness blindly, trying to hear where he was.
There was a creak of cotton directly in front of him and he knew Spike was crouching there, close enough to touch. He could smell him. He smelled good, like booze and skin and sex.
Despite the pain in his shoulder and legs, despite the cold, despite the fear that Spike was about to lean in and tear his throat out, he felt heat in his cock. Some part of him wanted to reach out into the darkness and hook his arm around Spike’s neck, pull him closer, and kiss him.
That was what he’d meant when he’d said yes.
He didn’t move. He sat in silence, his eyes lowered, waiting to see what would happen. A trickle of blood ran down his neck into his shirt.
There was the sound of a plastic bottle being opened, liquid sloshing, and then a cool hand pushed his head to the side, baring the wound on his neck. He swallowed and closed his eyes, grabbing the cushion beneath him.
Something cold touched his neck and he jumped.
“Hold still,” Spike said.
He held still, breathing hard. There was something cold and wet against his neck, and the smell of pure alcohol in the air. After a moment Spike’s hand took hold of his and put it over a small gauze pad on his neck.
“Press on that,” Spike said.
He pressed.
Spike moved away again, and there was the sound of the pill bottles opening. Funny, how familiar that sound had become, without his even noticing. He could tell them apart in the dark—the Demerol first, the red-and-yellows second.
If Spike was cleaning up his neck and feeding him pills, he probably didn’t intend to rip his head off. At least not right away.
He must still have the chip. When he’d gone for Liv in the bathroom, it had half murdered him, even though he hadn’t laid a finger on her. He must still have it.
So how could he bite Xander and feel nothing?
Spike was in front of him again, a cool hand over his, taking the gauze out of his fingers. The alcohol didn’t sting at all—did a vampire bite go numb? He’d never heard. Usually the bitees weren’t around to talk about it afterward.
“Here.” Pills in his hand. He put them in his mouth and Spike gave him a glass. He drank the whole thing. He was thirsty.
When the glass was empty he held it between his knees and kept silent. His crotch was a swamp and he reflected that he was probably wrecking Spike’s couch. He couldn’t bring himself to care very much.
Spike was silent, and Xander couldn’t tell if he was still there, crouching a foot away, not breathing. Watching him. Again he wanted to ask for light, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Partly because he didn’t really want a light—didn’t really want to see Spike right now.
After a moment there was a small sound, and a movement in the air, and Spike’s hand was on his face. He jumped slightly with surprise, and found Spike’s face inches from his own, his mouth by Xander’s lips.
Xander jerked away.
It hurt, of course—everything hurt again—and he made a small noise and then sat gasping as his blood crashed in his head. He couldn’t tell which direction he was facing, he was all turned around. He had a sudden, horrible conviction that Spike was standing right there, an inch away, a fist drawn back. Anything could come out of the darkness at him—a boot, a bullet. Anything.
“What’s wrong?”
Spike’s voice was on his left, and he jerked that way, shaking.
“Nothing.” His voice was a wreck, a whisper.
“Don’t lie.”
There was annoyance in Spike’s voice, and a touch of coldness that made Xander’s spine ache. It was the same kind of coldness he used on Liv. For some reason, it was worse than being yelled at.
“You bit me,” he said softly.
There was silence. Xander turned his head away and touched his neck without thinking. He heard Spike shift, and felt him settle onto the couch. Not touching. Far enough away not to touch.
“What did you expect me to do?” he asked.
Xander swallowed. He couldn’t tell whether Spike’s tone was pitying or sympathetic. He realized he was still touching his neck, and dropped his hand self-consciously.
“What did I expect?” he asked. “Fuck, I don’t know.”
“I’m a vampire,” Spike said evenly.
“I know.” He felt a sudden malicious impulse and added, “I’ve been staking your relations since I was sixteen.”
To his surprise, Spike laughed. It sounded genuine and amused, and a cool hand came out of the darkness and dropped on his shoulder in a companionable way.
“I know,” Spike said.
Some of the strain went out of Xander’s body—too soon to be the Demerol starting to work, so maybe it was the fact that Spike didn’t seem inclined to kill him.
“I need a bath,” he said without thinking.
“You need to sleep,” Spike corrected him, and stood up. A hand hooked under his left arm and pulled him upright.
He went with it because there was no use arguing, but suddenly there was no feeling in his feet and he saw lights spinning. Spike caught him and held him up. His body was lax and refused to do what he told it.
“Fucking—” It came out in a whisper and trailed off, and Spike took him carefully around the waist and seemed to just pick him up. The room moved and he was lying down on top of cool sheets.
He was cold and had the strangest impression that his body had disappeared entirely. He couldn’t feel it, couldn’t see a thing. He was nothing, hardly even consciousness, just an awareness of cold and the feeling of sheets being pulled over a body he didn’t seem to have. That, and the wet spot in his boxers.
Fucking hell, he tried to say, get these fucking things off me. But his mouth was loose and open and for once it didn’t speak.
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