Title: He's Perfect
Author: Chickalupe
Email: chickalupe@juno.com
Feedback: ooh, makes me feel all tingly… chickalupe@juno.com
Site: http://talulahjellybean.tripod.com/writings_on_the_wall
Fandom: Buffy
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: R
Spoilers: season 4, Chipped!Spike in Basement-Of-Doom
Warnings: PWP, slash, vamp sex, frottage, overuse of the word "perfect", slight OOC-ness
Disclaimer: Lord Joss, god of the Buffy-verse, owns everything you see here. I just make the pretty boys do naughty things without his permission, but the boys secretly enjoy it.
Summary: Spike and Xander's thoughts travel along strikingly similar paths.
{{A/N: First off, yay me for my first PWP! (even though it's not very graphic smut-wise.) I wrote this nigh unto a year ago, and it hibernated forgotten on my hard-drive until recently. I decided to publish it as an apology to all those people who've been asking me about updates for 'Xander Sammich' and 'Mataata'. I'm trying, honestly, but my muses aren't cooperating! Apparently they've got writers block too (ha ha). I will try to update soon, and I promise you I am definitely NOT abandoning them. For now, please enjoy this fluffy Spander piece that is so sickeningly sweet it may cause cavities.}}
{{PS- switches back and forth between Xander and Spike POV.}}

He’s perfect. I should know, it seems like I spend all my time watching him. Okay, yeah, I may take the occasional break for eating and sleeping; but seriously, I’m always watching him. At Scooby meetings, out on patrol, or even those rare times like now, when the two of us are alone together. And every day, every moment, every second, he is just the perfect example of…perfection.

It’s a cliché, I know, but it’s true. There’s no other word for him. The oh-so silky smoothness of him, the utter translucency of his skin that seems to wrap over his muscles like poured milk, the white pale purity that almost seems like he’s softly glowing. Perfect.

How else can you describe eyes so very blue; when they snap, and burn, and freeze, and glare, all within a single look? His looks that cut through to my heart, my very soul of all that I am; seeing all my secrets. Eyes that can see, and have seen, so much. There is some kind of ageless wisdom there, that mocks you for not knowing he does; that says, ‘I have all the answers, and you don’t,’ and in the very next instant offers to tell them to you. So perfect.

What other name can there be for the sheer poetry with which he moves? His walk, with a swagger and a sway and a certain smooth rolling of the hips. How he fights, each punch and kick landing with perfect placement in a whirl of motion.

That face, *his* face; oh god even his scar doesn’t detract from his perfection, perfect in its asymmetry. He’s all points and sharp angles. Sometimes, I really want to touch him, run my hands over his beautiful face, and I half expect he’d slice my fingertips. More than likely I’d be pulled right into the whirling vortex of Spike-ness; sucked deep into the black holes that *are* his cheekbones.

And all of it, each part of him, comes together into one overall perfect package. I watch him because I can never touch him. I can’t, because I’m playing a role, a part, flawlessly. About the only perfect thing about me is my ability to be the *imperfect* bumbling fool that I am expected to be.

He’s talking now, criticizing the mess here in the basement. “This place is a sty. You’re a perfect slob, Harris.” And I could listen to him speak all night, just to let that throaty purr wash over me. If all he did for the rest of his days was insult me, I could never get tired of hearing his words. But I can’t just sit here, because he’s offered the challenge, starting the dance of words and insults that we step to with each other. And I hate it, I despise it, but I still have to play my part. It’s what I do.

“Yeah, like *you’re* so perfect, Fangless,” I say to him, but it lacks fire. The words almost stick in my throat, because it’s true, it’s *true*, and I can’t inject my usual sarcasm into it. If only he knew that I was being honest, he is perfect to me. But I can’t tell him, not ever; and it kills me just a little to know that.

He’s perfect. He is everything good, all that I gave up hope for long ago. He’s everything, period. He’s laughter and love and joy; he’s fierce loyalty and courage almost to the point of stupidity. He’s all that I could never be, could never have; all that I gave up any kind of claim to with everything I’ve done for a hundred-odd years.

But I can’t bring myself to regret being a vampire, can’t quite make myself wish I had never been turned, for all that it makes me unworthy of him. Because had I never become what I am, I would never have met him; I’d be nothing but bones moldering in a century-old grave. So in a way, I am grateful. Grateful I get even this chance to be so close to him, perfect as he is. He *is* perfection, and I am striving for it. For him. For just a piece, a sliver of his light.

Sometimes I could almost believe that he’s swallowed the sun, so effulgent is his light that shines from within. Sounds like something from a bloody awful poem of mine. The cynical demon that I still am mocks me for my weakness over Xander; how I wax poetic just as I had a distressing tendency to do as a human. And maybe it’s that the human part of me never really left, but I can’t help it, how I feel. Haven’t had a choice since the moment I caught myself looking into his perfect whiskey-dark eyes and fell in. I’m trapped behind those beautifully expressive orbs, but I’m not trying to get free. I’ve said it before, I’ve always been love’s bitch.

Some of his looks could wring tears from a bloody statue, they speak so much; and I’ve never claimed to be made of stone. He looks at me with those eyes that say he’s been hurt so many times before, and I want to kill everyone who’s ever looked at this boy, this man, and not seen what I do. I should destroy them all for making him feel worthless. He’s not, he can’t be. He’s perfect.

But I can’t exactly call myself his biggest ego-booster. I wear a mask, hiding behind insults and barbs, because that way he’ll never suspect. Because if he knew, I’d be lain open and vulnerable before this perfect mortal. And William the Bloody just doesn’t *do* vulnerability well. Laying my heart on the line hasn’t worked out too nicely for me in the past.

So I lash out at him, this perfect man who needs nothing more than to be protected by someone. “This place is a sty. You’re a perfect slob, Harris.” ‘Perfect’, damn, why’d that word slip out? Of course he latches onto it.

“Yeah, like *you’re* so perfect, Fangless.” Strange, it sounds like he actually means it, rather than the insult he probably wanted it to be. I look at him and see that he believes it. Me, perfect? Now there’s a bloody laugh.

But I see sincerity in his eyes before he can hide it, and something else there. Something that gives me hope. That’s when I throw caution to the wind.

“No, luv,” I tell him. “You’re the perfect one.” I look him in the eye, laying myself bare, holding nothing back from this perfect golden one. I can’t help myself; I reach out a hand to stroke the curve of one cheek. I compared his skin to the sun, and I was right. It doesn’t burn me like its heavenly counterpart; his heat curls through my palm, embracing me like the yellow ball in the sky can never do again. “So warm…” escapes me, unbidden, before I capture his lips with my own.

He’s kissing me, and it’s more perfect than any kiss should be allowed to be. The press of his mouth; the silken glide of his cool tongue dancing with mine is better than I dreamed it would be. One hand continues to caress my cheek as the other tangles in my hair, and somehow I’ve grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. We’re plastered front-to-front, and I can feel his arousal.

My hands stroking over his back have a mind of their own, and his fingers retain their grip on my hair to keep me from leaving as he releases my lips to let me breathe. “Xander,” he sighs so very softly as his tongue traces the outline of my mouth.

“Spike,” is wrenched from me with a moan, and rub myself against him unconsciously. The friction of our aligned cocks is perfect, so I do it again. Spike growls, and before I can blink has his tongue down my throat, his hands on my ass, and a leg between mine. We’re grinding together while I clutch his shoulders for dear life and enjoy the ride.

He rips his mouth from mine, throwing his head back and exposing the slender perfect-white column of his neck as he howls his completion. That sight is enough to send me hurtling towards my own orgasm, even if I hadn’t been hard as a rock to begin with.

Xander in the throes of passion is a sight that belongs in a painting. When he opens his eyes, he looks flushed and perfectly debauched, and *I* did that.

He smiles, and it’s all for me. "That may in fact have been the best kiss I’ve ever had.”

And it’s that easy, no horrified blushes and ‘What did I just do?’; just a grin and perfect acceptance. Damned if that doesn’t make me fall a little bit harder. I don’t think I can speak without gushing all over him and generally making a prat of myself by spilling my heart, so I do the only thing I can and kiss him as I drag him into the bathroom to clean up.

As the shower gets turned on an clothes are removed, he looks at me with a question in his eyes. “So how do you think they’ll take this?” We both know which ‘they’ he means.

Those words make my unbeating heart leap as I realize that he wants there to be a *this* at all, and then growl when I think of how those blasted Scoobies might react. I couldn’t care less what they think, but if they hurt my Xan they’ll be hell to pay. “Don’t care how they feel, they can sod off. I’m the Big-fucking-Bad fer christsakes; I do *whatever* I want and love *whoever* I want!”

“Love?!” Xander’s tone is incredulous, and my first thought is ‘Well, shit,’ as I realize what I’ve accidentally let slip.

“Yes,” I admit, embarrassed and bracing myself for rejection.

“Love,” says Xander again, his eyes warm; and it’s a declaration this time rather than a question.

I finish peeling off my jeans with shaking hands, and we don’t speak as we get into the shower, just grinning goofily at each other like idiots.

Our silence is broken by moans, shouts, and panting; but no talking, not a single word.

We both seem to realize tthisthis is too perfect for words.

THE (perfect) END.




{{A/N part 2: Anyone keep track of how many times I used the 'p' word? 32 TIMES!!! Woo, good job. *throws confetti*}}