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 Four
"Tell me," Spike commanded, pale sultan with a crown of white smoke, sitting cross legged on his throne of thick black wire.
Xander glanced up from the tangle of cables he was trying to pull loose so he could tie them in neat orderly lines, silver tape skin to bind them and make it less bother to pack them. Setting up would be quicker and easier at every gig if he succeeded and when he was finished, Xander planned to gloat having proved he could actually help when they were on the road. Only, judging by the thick cord swallowing his arms, spiders of cable bursting from his palms, he reasoned that he may have been better to choose an easier task.
"Tell you what?" he grunted, heaving a box to the side and attempting to untangle himself from the forest of thin, black, snake-like, evil plastic creatures of hell. He supposed he was being a little melodramatic, but when a cable tripped him up (tangled itself around his leg and fucking pulled, little bastard), he decided nothing was melodramatic about fighting the forces of evil ... otherwise known as microphone, guitar, stereo system and other various wires of no real purpose other than to thwart his attempts to tame them. Electricians didn't get paid enough.
"Dunno," Spike replied amiably, no move to get up and help. The thought had probably never even crossed his mind. Spike wasn't big with the 'helping'. Or 'teamwork'. Or, at present, with the concept of 'moving' at all. "Don't care. Just tell me something," he insisted, spoiled child with thick eyeliner and a t shirt three sizes too small.
"My best friend's name was Willow," Xander said quietly, almost inaudible over the rustle of wires that took up so much air in back of the mini-van.
"Was?" Spike asked, head cocked, eyes a sharp blue that should be dull or brown in the dim light - though they aren't. Xander sometimes wondered if any of the world's rules applied to him.
"Was. People don't have names after the die," Xander replied, white table, pale pale little girl with fragile bones and dull orange hair flashing through his mind - no. Willow wasn't that girl's name.
"Oh," Spike said into the silence, slight nod, no apology. Xander was infinitely grateful. With an elegance Xander couldn't quite grasp, he slid to his knees and kicked the van door open. Light flooded in, cold air that tastes like rain. "Come on," he said, hand held out, impatient frown as he glanced at the sky as though it had personally insulted him. Xander dropped the cables, nearly fell over as they pulled at his legs when he stepped outside. Spike caught him, rolled his eyes and passed him a cigarette. Ah. Xander's new and cancerous habit that he'd picked up between LA and Carson City.
"Where are we going?" he asked, wary glance at Spike's fingers that twitched in the heavy air. This indicated Spike was going to do something Insane. Or, that he really needed to pee. Xander hadn't known him long enough to manage to discern which on the 'twitching fingers' merit alone.
"I haven't a fucking clue," Spike said, grabbing his arm, running, running across the car park, away from the mini van and the tour bus, away from Faith screaming that they had to practice before the gig ... just running, with Xander's hand clamped around his, the two of them moving so fast it felt as though their feet may lift off the tarmac and send them speeding into the sky. Xander didn't even realise he was laughing until he was standing in a coffee shop, trying to catch his breath as Spike started making a loud commentary on the people around them, 'National Geographic' style, roguish cockney drawl dropped for something startlingly posh.
"... and as you can see, the 'Redneckius Flanneliuss' over there in the corner have engaged in a pissing contest of sorts, battling for the ultimate prize of a half eaten muffin," he said, ducking behind a potted plant when the staff started walking towards them. When he realised his hiding place wouldn't quite work out, the plant being a mere three feet tall. "I think they've been alerted to our presence, dear chap. Best to bugger off," he said with a conspiratorial wink, backing towards the exit when a larger member of the Redneckius clan stood up and glared menacingly.
"Why do you do stuff like that?" Xander asked, laughter still tinged his voice, cheeks flushed.
"'Cause I can. And because it's fun to throw yourself into something. Fun to drown, ... when there's no water involved," he said, thoughtful look as he pushed his hand through his hair, ash white spikes that stood up in pure defiance of gravity. Everything about Spike defied something. "Here," he said when they were a safe distance away, handing Xander a cup of icy, blue slush.
"When did you get these?" he asked, nodding towards Spike's red slush, staining his lips deep crimson. He looked like a vampire or something.
"Pinched them off the counter before we scarpered," Spike shrugged, another deep pull of the straw that left his tongue as red as his mouth. Xander sighed - nagging little voice of Good Samaritan pushing into his fun. Spike gave him a sidelong glance, seemed to sense this, and promptly pulled him into an ally to rectify the situation.
"Where were you last night?" he asked, a stupid question when it left his lips that took on a certain significance when Spike's gaze flicked across the room, settled on his face.
"Nowhere," he replied, easy lie that both of them would like to believe.
"Do you even remember?" he asked, not looking up, trained stare at a coke can on the floor that he doesn't really see. Spike sighed, creak of leather, wisp of cologne that wasn't his or Xander's tracing guilt in the air.
"Not really - Doyle gave me something after the gig to calm my nerves. You know how I get," he said, slow deliberate pause because Xander did know.
Spike tasted like red liquorish and coffee, pale hands normally so cool tipped with redbloodgrazes due to too many hours on the guitar, a laugh that echoed beneath Xander's skin. "Wanna fuck you raw," Spike croaked into his ear, aggressive shove so Xander's back was suddenly cold on white bathroom tiles.
"I was worried," Xander said, rolling his shoulders, trying to ease the ache in the back of his neck from sitting out in the hotel corridor most of the night, visions of late night trips to the morgue whirling around in his head. Two and a half weeks and he already felt responsible for the man he, admittedly, barely knew.
"I know," Spike snapped. Xander flinched, kicked the coke can and swallowed the anger in this throat. "I know," Spike repeated, soft now, deliberately so. He reached out, brushed his fingers across Xander's brow, leant forwards and kissed him gently, no intent other than comfort. Xander took a deep breath, let his worries and suspicions drop to the floor along with his clothes.
"Teach me how to drown," he whispered.
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