nasty shrew
NC-17 Spike/Xander
Xander's known Spike three days when he quits his job as a courier to go on tour with the band.
Warnings for drug use
See Disclaimer of Ownership here
Chapter Thirteen
Their Last Tuesday
Disinfectant lay heavy on his tongue, seeped through cotton into his pale skin – not tanned anymore, he’d lost that in Europe’s weather. Walking up the stairs to his hotel room their hotel room was eerily reminiscent of the hospital he’d just escaped from. White walls, colour scratched onto a canvas now and then to break up the monotony. When he was with Spike he never noticed the sterile hush of hotels – Spike painted his personality across the walls, laughed over the silence. But he wasn’t here, so the walls remained blotchy white.
Spike should be with him. He should have come to the hospital two hours ago and helped Xander stagger home. Hell, Xander had done it for him more times than he’d care to count. Spike hadn’t so much as called since he left Xander sleeping on white bed sheets in a fetching green, assless, gown.
Xander stopped at room 203, rested his weight against the door as he struggled to pull the card out of his pocket. His hands were clammy and the key card was plastic so it kept slipping from his fingers. “For fuck’s sake,” harsh scrape of words along his throat – sometimes he was surprised at the sound of his own voice. The key card slid through his fingers, clattered to the tile along with everything else that’d been in his pocket. “Not today,” pleading to a distant deity – God (maybe), Jesus (possibly), Cher (he was gay now, so it only seemed right). He stooped to pick up his things, ended up sitting on the floor due to the head rush.
With his worldly possessions spilled out onto tile that smelled like dying lemons, Xander sat and tried to think. His next move would have to be decided now, before he saw Spike. Spike had a nasty habit of banishing Xander’s ideas, of pulling sucking them out of him before he had time to speak. But not today. No, not today.
“Are you alright?” a man’s voice, clean and British.
No, no he’s not alright because he knows he’s going to leave Spike. Because he knows Spike will never understand. Because there’s a weight in his chest that tastes like guilt.
“Yeah. Lost my key card.”
“Do you need to use a phone?” the man asked, awkwardly concerned.
“I don’t have anyone to call,” he found himself saying. He didn’t know why he said it – it was a black lie. He had plenty of people he could call, more than he ever had before. He had all their numbers encased in plastic in his pocket, their names in black electronic squiggles. He could get up right now and call any of them, ask them to come over and help him pack, go with him to the airport and see him off.
He could call any one of them. But he didn’t know if any would come.
“Oh. Right. Well … weather’s terrible this time of year and this corridor is particularly drafty – I was just stepping out for lunch and … you look a bit peaky, so you could probably do with a hot drink and, uh ...”
Xander had been released from hospital two hours ago and was deciding whether he should leave the guy who could be the love of his life. He was dealing with the realisation that he had totally lost who he was in the course of a year. He was trying to cling to a semblance of sanity as he watched his world Spike split at the seams. The British solution?
Have a cup of tea.
“Thanks. I think I’ll take you up on that,” Xander interrupted (and since when had he been the one interrupting other people’s babble?). He pulled himself to his feet, met the eyes of a man a little older than him in years, though not in other respects – glasses, dark messy hair, a sweater that was a little tight across the shoulders.
“Wesley Wyndam Pryce,” he said with a grin, shaking Xander’s hand.
“Xander Harris. Does it have to be tea?”
“Sorry?”
“Is it only tea that solves crises or do all hot beverages work? ‘Cause I’m more of a coffee guy.”
Wesley laughed haltingly. “I’m sure coffee will be a worthy substitute.”
Their First Wednesday
“You’re crazy. And trust me, I’ve dealt with crazy. I know it when I see it.” A statement that was true on both counts.
1. Spike was so, totally crazy. He twitched, talked to himself, never stayed still for more than five minutes, drew disturbingly accurate diagrams of his sex life using stick men, had arguments with his guitar and thought Xander was sexy. Proof of a mad man.
2. Xander had limited experience with Crazy, but had dealt with it on occasion i.e. Louise on the fourth floor, who was convinced Xander was Elvis and tried to make him ‘confess’ every time she saw him at the Laundromat.
“But you think it’s endearing, don’t you dear?” said with a flutter of his lashes, a nasty little grin on his face. His gaze flicks to Xander’s jeans and he pretends to be horrified, his mouth drawn out into a perfect O of disgust. “You think it’s hot! You find my insanity a turn on! Depraved little wretch! Pervert!” Rolling his tongue over the words, a mocking falsetto that slices through the bus. Xander turned every shade of red as everyone laughed (though not unkindly).
“Perverts are my specialty,” Faith muttered from the left bunk, eyes sliding down Xander’s skin.
“Mitts off, the boy’s mine,”
“Never stopped me before,” Faith grinned, a twist of her hips shifting her legs apart. Xander swallowed.
“That’s because you’re a slag,” Spike said cheerfully.
“Bitch.”
“Touch what’s mine and I’ll feed you your spleen,” Spike growled, a hand tugging through Xander’s hair and an arm coiled around his chest.
“Ah, young love – it’s all fun and games now but just you wait …” she sighed, turning back to her conversation with Angel.
“Love is always young with me, pet. Stick around and see,” Spike murmured before he pressed his lips against Xander’s – it felt as though the world had fallen still, quiet. Xander had never been a fan of silence (always felt the urge to fill it) but for the first time in his life, the silence didn’t feel as though it would crush him.
Their Last Wednesday
Waking up with warm skin pressed against his back, weak yellow sunshine filtered through cracks between the curtains, hot breath tickling the back of his neck. It was safe, familiar. And at the same time?
Not.
The man’s limbs were too long, his breathing to easy, his hands too smooth across Xander’s stomach. This wasn’t Spike this was … oh. Oh, God.
Xander slid across the bed gingerly, afraid he’d wake Wesley. He didn’t. He stood. Walked to the bathroom door. He knew where it was, of course. All the hotel rooms are pretty much the same, though Wesley’s looked more lived in.
It wasn’t until he was standing in the bathroom that he realised he felt sick. Throwing up in a stranger’s toilet, naked. Didn’t get much better than that. Not to mention the fact that the only drink that had passed his lips since meeting Wesley had been coffee.
No booze to blame, Harris.
He dry heaved into the toilet bowl and prayed Wesley wouldn’t wake, wouldn’t find Xander here. Stripped. Vulnerable. Feeling like seven kinds of hell. He reached out on impulse, sighed with relief when the lock on the bathroom door clicked. The bathroom lock in his and Spike’s room was broken. It wasn’t the only fucking thing broken between him and ... okay, bad metaphors never helped so Xander stopped that thought there and concentrated on what had happened yesterday.
He’d had lunch with Wesley. They’d talked. Talked about normal things. There was no mention of Dali, blowing things up, karaoke or fucking. They talked about London, about LA, about the weather and soccer. Xander made jokes. Wesley laughed nervously and stumbled over his words. He cut his food up into equally sized pieces with a knife and fork. He was uptight, awkward and had absolutely no idea that his face, his body, could tempt almost anyone to leave the restaurant with him.
Then they’d walked through the city and Wesley had regurgitated a ridiculously detailed history of practically every building they’d passed and Xander had listened to some of it, but mostly just watched Wesley’s cheeks flush as he grew more and more enthusiastic.
Back to the hotel, then. Up the stairs. Following Wesley into his apartment. He thought about how Spike would think Wesley was boring, how he’d sneer and laugh at what he didn’t understand – and Xander knew he wouldn’t understand Wesley. That was when Xander started kissing him.
He’d had a moment of doubt when Wesley’s fingers slid down the front of his jeans but that had been easy to ignore. And then …
“Xander?” His voice muffled behind cheap wood, Wesley was standing only a couple of feet away from the door. Xander thumped his head onto the tiled wall and shut his eyes.
Their First Thursday
Fingers dipping into his trousers, calloused fingers dragging across his chest, edges for hips digging into him. Every space on him in him filled. Enveloped in feverish urgency, smothered in flesh and breath and heat. He lay bare in every way it’s possible to be naked, stretched in every direction and his whole being shivering because he’s cold under the heat, shit scared that Spike is going to see what a total loser he is and then it’ll all go back to the Way it Was.
With every day that passes, the fear grows. It seems exquisitely cruel that Xander will have to leave this place of no consequence or responsibility. That soon he’ll have to trudge back to an apartment he has never been home and to friends who barely know him. He wants to stay here in this specific moment, with Spike saying Xander’s name over and over, with his soul exposed in a cheap motel room for all the world to see.
This is painful. This is exhilarating. This is the best fucking Thursday night he’s ever had, that he ever will have.
This is freedom.
Their Last Thursday
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Could ask you the same question,” Xander snapped, walking past Spike into the bedroom.
“I looked for you at the gig in the Oblong last night but you didn’t turn up, and I called the hospital but they said you’d left. Christ, Xand! You could have …”
“Been passed out in a ditch? Wow, you must have been worried. That was so inconsiderate of me, leaving suddenly without calling you or telling you where I was. I couldn’t imagine what that would feel like,” a snap of venom, shot with bitterness he’d never thought he’d feel. Not until he was at least 30.
“So this was revenge because I left you at the hospital? Nice. Very fucking nice,” Spike hissed, shoving Xander from behind. Xander stumbled but didn’t fall – he managed to steady himself on the edge of the bed.
“I can deal with you leaving me there. I don’t like that you never came back,” Xander said as he turned to face Spike, dangerously close to losing control.
“Don’t be such a bloody drama queen! I’ve been thinking about you non-stop for the past two days.”
“Thinking about me? Bullshit!”
“Bullshit, huh? What’s this then?” Spike shoved scraps of paper at him and folded his arms across his chest when Xander took them.
“What are these?” he asked, not even attempting to translate the smudged ink scrawl – the paper smelled like JD.
“Poems. Drawings. Songs. For you. About you. I thought about nothing else! I just couldn’t get my act together, s’all. Been having a rough couple of days – scary days. You know how I get,” desperation now as his shoulders slumped and his voice cracked. God, please don’t let him do that. Not that.
Xander had been prepared to leave, had thought about what he was putting in the suitcase and what he was leaving behind. He didn’t like the person he’d become, he hated what Spike was making him – what Spike’s world was making him. And now his resolve, his decisions … it was all crumbling before his eyes and if Spike said It then he knew he couldn’t leave. “I was going out of my mind without you … well, more than usual,” a wry smile, though he was crying. Xander knew that if Spike said those three words then, just those three, he’d stay for as long as Spike wanted him to. He’d stay forever. “Xander … I need you.”
‘I need you’.
But those were the wrong three words.
Their First Friday
“I can’t believe it’s only been a week since I met you – I feel like you’ve always been here,” Spike sighed, a grin that could only be classified as ‘goofy’ pulling at his features. Xander was pretty sure his expression mirrored that, though he was far more practiced at the whole ‘goofy’ thing. He tried to stifle his smile – he wanted to be the cool one for once.
Spike glanced at him, raised an eyebrow.
“What’s the matter with you? Did you pull a muscle?”
Apparently Xander’s ‘cool face’ made him look as though he were in pain. Fair enough. He was in pain … but it was good pain. Fun, post coital pain.
“No … just happy,” he laughed, shifting closer so Spike’s head rested beneath his chin and their legs were completely entangled. They were breathing in unison and before long they’d be snoring in unison.
“Me too. Even though you wouldn’t help me nick that Harley today. Love you, you know,” Spike said as he yawned. Xander felt a thrill shoot through him when he heard those words – Jesus, he was such a girl.
“I didn’t help you steal the bike because stealing is wrong and because if you own a Harley Davidson you have to grow facial and marry a woman called Cobra Lynette. Which would suck,” Xander explained.
“I think I’d suit a ‘tache. And I think you’d suit Cobra Lavelle,” Spike mumbled. Xander snorted.
“I don’t love you that much.”
He tensed when he realised what he’d said.
“But you do love me, yeah?” Spike asked, his voice still sleepy, his movements languid, as though Xander saying this, saying this after a week was no big deal. Hell, it probably wasn’t that big of a deal to him. He seemed to know what Xander felt before he did.
“Yeah,” Xander muttered. He shut his eyes, well aware he was leaping off a cliff … and even if what lay at the bottom were sharp rocks and pain, it was worth the joy of the fall. “I love you.”
End.
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