cordelianne
Rated R Spike/Xander
It's like Xander's living Reality Bites but without Jeanne Garofalo to liven up the twenties angst. His best bet for a new roommate is to pull some random guy in off the street.
beta'd by savoytruffle
See Disclaimer of Ownership here
Each November there comes a day when Xander boldly declares that he is going to quit smoking.
It’s been going on for three years now. It’s been three years since he moved to Toronto and three years since he started smoking. Oh yeah, so not a coincidence.
It’s when Xander inhales the warm nicotine and also the first blast of winter’s cold air that he makes his yearly promise to himself.
“Remind me why we do this again.” Xander directs his plea to Oz, his partner in crime. Okay, they’re nowhere near that cool. Oz maybe, but not Xander. It’s more like partner in slacking, breaking and smoking.
“It’s not work.”
“Good point.” And boss guy Ben – who shares their addiction – doesn’t count smoking as break time.
And speaking of – technically thinking of – Ben, he pokes his head out the door. “Got five rooms waiting to be cleaned. Don’t get behind, gonna be a busy night.”
“It’s always a busy night,” Xander mutters to Ben’s back.
Oz nods his agreement. “People do like sex.”
“Gay guys love sex,” Xander amends. He then remembers why he moved to the city. It wasn’t for the subway system and the 24-hour bathhouses.
Okay, maybe the bathhouses played a part, not that he knew about them when he decided to come here.
But it was all about the sex.
The gay sex.
’Cause it’s not like there wasn’t sex to be found in Thunder Bay – there’s not much else to do but get drunk and have sex, in that order. But it was all sex of the heterosexual variety and that just wasn’t something Xander was up for. Literally.
Oz tosses his cigarette down and tilts his head toward the door. Xander takes that last sweet but harsh inhale and sends his cigarette to join the others littering the alley’s gutter, then follows Oz inside.
The smell of sweat and sex fills his nostrils. Xander sighs. He’ll quit tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be the day.
Tomorrow is not the day.
He’s already on cigarette number two and he’s only been up for an hour. But at least it’s one in the afternoon. Smoking in the afternoon is better than in the morning. Or that’s what Xander tells himself anyway.
Xander also tells himself he’s procrastinating. Which he knows. He takes another so-deep-he-should-be-smoking-weed inhale and turns to face the music. Or at least the note.
The stupid note stuck to the fridge.
Moving in with Brandon. Sorry! Greg
Xander peels it off and turns it over in the hopes of finding a shiny cheque on the back to cover the rent that’s due in five days.
Damn those leather daddy sugar daddies.
Not that Xander has anything against leather daddies or sugar daddies or even the combination of the two, but he does when they cause his roommate to skip out on the rent without spreading the wealth to guys who don’t make much more than minimum wage.
He swings open the door to Greg’s room and takes in the garbage littering the floor around the stripped-to-the-bare-mattress futon. It’s like he’s living Reality Bites but without Jeanne Garofalo to liven up the twenties angst.
Nothing but bite here.
Xander ponders hitting his head against the wall. At least then he might feel better when he stopped. He needs to pull himself together: he’s one step away from racking up a few hundred dollars on the psychic hotline – or paying for phone sex.
He slams the door.
It’s briefly satisfying and it reminds Xander of something that always cheers him up: food. As he pours Cheerios, he vows to never again get a roommate from Now Magazine.
He’d be better off pulling some random guy off the street.
And Xander knows he’s desperate because it sounds like a good idea.
Possibly because he’s just discovered that Greg’s cell is no longer in service and he doesn’t know Brandon’s number or last name or anything about him besides his dual daddy identity.
He’s trying to figure out how he can stake out the Black Eagle in the faint hope of seeing either Greg or Brandon when “SexyBack” blasts out of his cell.
“Greg?” Xander answers in his most Remember me? Your roommate of two years who you just deserted tone.
“No. It’s Ben. Where are you? You’re half an hour late.”
Xander blinks at the stove clock. “B-but it’s only one-thirty.”
“It’s three. Get your ass in now before I fire you.” The line clicks dead.
His cell agrees with Ben – it’s displaying three p.m. Three-ten to be exact.
Apparently the stove had an allegiance to Greg (who did cook more – and better food – than Xander) and stopped working in solidarity with Greg’s departure. Xander thinks this may be an example of dramatic irony but since he dropped out of university after one year of Drama, he’s not so sure.
He does know it’s damn unfair. Almost getting fired on the day the guy who paid half the rent on the apartment takes off just… sucks. Xander wishes he had a better word for it – but hey, university drop-out.
And no time for bitter reminiscing – time to run to work and beg for forgiveness. And extra shifts.
Oh yeah, it’s grovelling time.
He’s out the door, winding his scarf around his neck when he realizes he’s left his smokes on the kitchen table.
Maybe today is the day.
It’s a Saturday – of course it’s not the day.
“Thank you, God,” Xander says around a smoky exhale.
“You can call me Oz.”
“Ha ha, very funny. You’re a regular Will Ferrell.”
“We’ll find you a roommate.” Oz claps him on the shoulder. “And when we find Greg, Buffy will beat him up.”
“Is it sad that it makes feel better knowing our five-foot blonde friend will do that for me?”
“She’s pure muscle, she could probably take Frank.” Oz nods to the hulking security guard nearby.
“True.” Xander grins. Personal trainer and boxer? Good friend to have.
They finish their unofficial break in silence, standing over a grate for warmth and alternating which hand holds the cigarette and which is stuffed in a pocket.
It’s hard to imagine but the day only gets worse.
It’s actually night now, but whatever. Xander’s five stops past caring and on the who gives a fuck train now. Which is good, because wherever this night is going, it’s heading there in a hand basket.
First, there’s the room with shit all over the walls. Xander’s not sure if it was accidental or a whole fetish thing, and really doesn’t want to know.
On second thought, nothing tops that.
None of the blood covered-sheets, the used condoms, or the lube and come smeared in inexplicable places even come close to the shit room.
Even being groped by Lecherous Old Guy seems good in comparison.
But the shit room gets a run for its money when Xander almost slams into Angel.
There’s nothing like seeing your ex when you’re wearing latex gloves and stuffing syringes into the needle disposal bin. Actually, make that your asshole of an ex who was nice while you were sleeping together for that week, but then disappeared.
“Angel,” Xander blurts out because his mouth is in no way connected to his brain.
Angel blinks and takes a step back. “Oh, hi…” He looks confused and Xander barely hides a grin even though Angel can’t remember his name. He’s gotta take his pleasures where he can at this point.
“Xander,” he supplies. “Too many conquests to remember all of our names? Wish I could forget yours, but,” Xander shrugs, “it’s hard to forget your first, even if he is a grade A asshole.”
“Oh, I, er, you…” Angel blinks some more and shoves his hands into his pockets. It gives Xander a tiny bit of satisfaction to have rattled the guy.
“Did someone call you an asshole?” Some guy Xander’s never seen – all bleached blond hair, tight black clothes and English-sounding accent – steps up beside Angel. “You are my type of guy. C’mon.”
“But, I…” Angel looks between Xander and the new guy, as he trails off once again.
New guy rolls his eyes. “This is a bathhouse, not a bloody social club. We’re here for sex not some lesbian potluck where we process with our exes.” He turns and stalks into a nearby clean room.
Xander waves Angel off. “Have your fun. I’ve got a date with the sling.” Xander holds up his cleaning container. “I’m in high demand.”
If only he was high right now. Flying on E and feeling like nothing could touch him, everything was alright and he loved everyone.
Flying high above it all.
He settles for nicotine instead.
Well, he would if he could find Oz and bum another smoke off him, but he’s not sure where Oz is. He’s either crashed in an empty room or fucking that young punk guy who’d been eyeing him earlier. Either way, Xander’s not looking to interrupt.
He pulls the zipper up to his chin, yanks his hood over his head, and steps outside, praying that someone will take pity on him.
Unfortunately the only smoker he sees – leaning against the alley wall, heedless of the cold bricks – is the last guy he’d peg to pity him: the guy who was with Angel earlier. But at this point, Xander doesn’t care if it’s Jack the Ripper magically transported through space and time – as long as he has a cigarette.
He approaches his only port in a storm, thankful it’s only a metaphorical storm and not another actual snowstorm like the weatherpeople were predicting.
And the fact that the guy is hot in that I-want-him-to-shove-me-against-the-wall-a
Xander takes courage from his racing heart and grabs onto his port (ignoring his very lame metaphor). “Lovely balmy night, isn’t it?”
The guy lifts an eyebrow – a scarred eyebrow like those guys back home who hung out at the local tavern, got drunk and picked fights (the other main form of entertainment in Thunder Bay). But on this guy, the scar just makes him hotter and makes Xander a little weak in the knees. “’S cold, there’s snow.”
“Please.” Xander waves a hand in probably the feyest gesture he’s ever made. “This isn’t snow, it’s slush. My dad has pictures of me standing on snow piles taller than I am. Now that was snow.”
“It’s white, it’s wet. It’s snow,” the guy says as if this ends it all.
Xander decides to humour him. Maybe it’s his first winter here or something. He’s not sure if they get snow in England. And besides, his need for nicotine is reaching the dangerous level where he’s about to tackle this stranger and grab his cigarettes. Come to think of it, Xander wouldn’t mind tackling him anyway… and then Xander realizes he’s being stared at. “What?” he asks in his best defensive loser tone, it’s something he’s inadvertently perfected.
“You alright?” The you crazy guy is implied. But Xander makes contact with clear blue eyes and there’s genuine concern in them.
Which is what gets to Xander and what he blames for letting loose his list of worries and woes and he covers everything from lame-ass Greg to the shit room to Angel, not even bothering to sugar coat it in case the guy’s really into Angel.
It’s probably only about ten minutes later but it feels like he’s been talking for an hour when he finally stops for breath. “Here.” Xander takes the offered cigarette. “Name’s Spike.”
He leans over the proffered lighter and steps back on an icy smooth exhale. “Xander. And I cannot even begin to thank you.”
“Sure I can think of something,” Spike says with a wicked grin that has exactly the effect on Xander that he suspects Spike was going for. “But you’re gonna have more to thank me for in a sec.”
“Huh?” Xander’s never been eloquent when hormones are involved.
“Got a solution to your roommate thing. I need a place. Been crashing with an ex and the sooner I leave the better.”
Xander blinks as his brain tries to process. It’s like turning the crank on an old car until the engine starts up – it can take a while. “Oh! That would be great.” Great? Great? his brain echoes back at him.
“So, roomies?” Spike inhales and stares across the street at the prostitutes working the corner in their faux fur coats.
At this moment, Xander’s brain helpfully reminds him that sharing an apartment with a guy he’s hot for? Not the best idea. In fact, on the list of bad ideas, it would be right between invading Russia in the winter and the Clapper.
And that’s without factoring in the possibly that Spike’s dating Xander’s ex.
Oh yeah, this is a very bad idea. Maybe not quite Napoleon bad, but still bad.
“Roomies!” Xander declares with a smile. That thing about his brain not being connected to his mouth? Further proof.
But right now, he’s too desperate for help with rent to bother worrying about details.
When Spike offers him another cigarette he accepts. At this point, smoking’s the only thing that makes sense.
More sense than moving in with someone one step up from random guy off the street.
Or is that a step down?
It’s gonna be a long cold winter.
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