cordelianne
Rated PG-13 Spike/Xander
Spike and Xander meet at a Christian summer camp named, of all things, Outside Pride.
beta'd by savoytruffle and spookymonkey
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Trees and rocks, and more trees and rocks.
And don’t forget the clean air and fresh water.
It’s like a bloody nature movie, but with none of the fun violent parts.
He doesn’t need a flashlight and he sure as hell doesn’t need to go slow. Spike’d be running up the rock except he doesn’t run. Not even if it would get him away from the camp faster. Running’s for all those health-obsessed freaks who think they can cheat death.
His shoulders relax as he pulls a ziplock bag from the hole in a tree – his tree. The cigarette’s in his mouth and lighter’s flaring before he’s even sunk down onto the rock. Spike stretches out and stares up at the sky.
Thank God for the night.
His lips twitch. God, or the camp’s God in any case, wouldn’t approve of him taking advantage of the early curfew to sneak away for a smoke. He exhales and looks for the Big Dipper – the only constellation he can name.
It’s upside down, more like a net than a ladle or whatever it’s supposed to be.
He’s lighting his second cigarette as he crushes out the first on his shoe. He’d kill for whiskey right now, but any alcohol would do, even a pack of those fruity wine coolers would hit the spot. Course stumbling back drunk will get him kicked out without so much as a chance to ask forgiveness, and he’s not ready for that. Yet. See how the summer goes.
Right now, here’s better than the alternatives.
It’s drop a pin and hear a clang in the compound kind of quiet.
Spike tries not to test out that theory and all’s good until he bangs into someone. It’s a male someone, and Spike slaps a hand over that someone's mouth before it's Rise and shine! six hours too early.
“Nice work, mate. Yell any louder and the elders’ll come running, pitchforks and torches waving.”
It’s dark and all he can make out is the outline of a broad-shouldered kid – probably one of those counselors, thank fuck not Angel. The kid’s pushing against him, so he rolls his eyes and releases him. Better avoid the righteous wrath of the young.
There’s sputtering and adjusting of the shirt – none of which convince Spike of much. “What’s up with the touching? I mean, not touching in the bad way, not that there’s anything wrong with touching. As long as it’s consensual and can we just forget I said all that?” Spike was lost back at the first touching.
Spike’s eyes are adjusting to the dark and the kid’s close enough that he can see big eyes fixed on him. The kid just keeps on talking, “Anyway, I’m just on an innocent trip to the facilities. You know, the bathroom. And who are you?”
He breaks the eye contact. “Not really up for a round of campfire bonding so let’s just go our separate ways, forget we ever met.”
“But…” The kid rests his hand on Spike’s shoulder and he feels the warmth seeping through his tee shirt. Spike stops, but just for a second. He shrugs off the counselor’s hand, and makes his way back to his part of the camp.
Doesn’t look back.
Morning arrives with singing. The singing of hymns accompanied by the clanging of pots. Not exactly a choir of heavenly hosts.
The camp’s version of an alarm clock has Spike reaching for his flask. His flask that’s not there, of course. Might be for the best. The clanging'd be even more of a bitch with a hangover.
What do you know? Religion does discourage drinking. It’s probably already on the brochure, alongside the photos of smiling kids clutching bibles.
Pounding on his door joins the early morning serenade. He’ll never get back to sleep now. Damn these evangelists and their good old protestant work ethic.
“Yeah?”
It’s Angel, his hand poised to do more bloody pounding. “You do understand that they expect us to work? Every day.” Angel’s in lecture mode. Spike settles back on the bed. “And we’re supposed to start on time.”
Spike closes his eyes.
“Spike!”
“What? I’m listening.” He pulls a pillow under his head. “With my eyes closed.”
“Fine. Screw this up. It’s not like you need this job or anything.”
Spike hears Angel’s sigh as he leaves. He’s impressed at the lack of door slamming and storming out. Maybe Angel’s toning down the drama queen routine.
The door next door slams. Spike smiles. Same old, same old.
Might as well get up. Not like there’s anything better to do.
He regrets this decision as soon as he hits the wall of happy chatter in the dining hall. Apparently Christian conversion comes with the bonus of becoming a “morning person” free of charge. He wants a refund.
The smell of grease wafts from the kitchen. There’d better be bacon.
There is.
He plunks his tray down at the staff table. Angel doesn’t look away from his conversation with the other maintenance guy, but Spike knows he’s gloating on the inside.
The bacon’s actually good. Guess that Andrew kid can cook after all.
Apparently he can also shriek like a teenage girl.
“Oh wow! I can’t believe you have that! A genuine DC Superman tee shirt! Where did you get that because it’s been sold out for a month now –” A kid with floppy brown hair is backing away from Andrew’s spatula-flailing excitement. “– I haven’t been able to track anyone down to buy it from. Can I touch it?”
“Uh, touch? It’s just a ….” The kid’s head see-saws, a desperate look in his eyes. “Why don’t you borrow it some time or something?” He spies the empty seat beside Spike and lunges for it.
“So guys, how’s it going?” the kid says, nodding his head and glancing back at Andrew, whose oven-mitted hand is still hovering in mid-air. “Hopefully good. Cause good is, um, good. I mean, bad would be –”
“Andrew, get back in here now. The bacon’s not making itself!” Doris calls from the kitchen. Andrew drops the spatula, dashes off, skids to a stop, retrieves the spatula and sprints back into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding knocking over Cordelia who huffs in his direction.
Spike leans back in his chair, chews his bacon and watches the kid, who seems less freaked out at sitting at the maintenance table than at being treated like king of the geeks.
The kid turns his attention to Spike, extending his hand. “I’m Xander, sorry to crash.”
Spike sees Xander’s eyes widen with recognition just as he’s realizing that this is the kid from last night.
“Spike.” His hand’s out shaking the kid’s, preempting any blurting out of his late night adventures.
Angel’s eyebrows are raised so high they make his forehead look normal. Better distract the big guy. Spike leans his elbow on the table and points. “Angel. Lindsey.”
Xander’s shaking hands and grinning like a politician two days before an election. All that smiling is unnerving.
The smile turns on him. “So, what kind of a name is Spike?”
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