"Let's throw a parade. Or blow something up. Or throw a parade wherein we blow something up," Spike said, eyes bright, hair still wet from his shower, curling about his head.

"How are we going to throw a parade?" Xander asked, raised eyebrow, swallowing down some aspirin with a swig of icy water. He was exhausted - they'd just got back from a gig and though Spike was still riding his adrenaline rush, a certain tax-paying, responsible ex-courier required more than an hour of sleep.

"You can drive the bus, I'll dance around on top of it. We'll drive through the city. Play your cards right and I'll dance naked while I chuck petrol bombs at the walls," he said, shoving Xander so he flopped off the couch and landed on the wooden floor with a thunk.

"Sounds like a hoot, but we'll do that in the morning," Xander yawned, settling for a nap on the floor. It wouldn't be the first time. He could hear Spike's impatient sigh, hear the creak of the floorboards as he bounced on his heels.

"Wanna fuck instead?" he asked, mouth suddenly hot and by Xander's ear. Desperate for a release, for excitement, for something to do. Everything for Spike had to happen now, bolder, brighter, more.

Sometimes, he'd flash Xander this smile, this unbelievably wide fucking grin as he laughed or danced to the sound of traffic. He'd exude more energy in a moment than Xander had had in a lifetime. Those days were amazing. When Spike could give him a sidelong glance and grab him into a kiss, pull him out of his thoughts, worries, logic and make him just be. Tonight was not going to be one of those nights.

"Sleep. Need. Me," he muttered into his arm, another yawn so deep it felt as though air was being dragged from him. Spike sighed again and shifted, sounds of rustling and papers. Xander opened his eyes blearily for a moment when he felt fingers turning him so that he lay on his back, heavy solid warmth clambering onto him, straddling his waist. "Okay, if you're really that horny, go ahead. Just try to keep quiet alright?" he asked wearily, shutting his eyes again, smile pulling at his lips when he heard the soft snort.

"Sorry love, necrophilia has never been one of my kinks," Spike muttered, calloused fingers picking at Xander's shirt, losing patience, ripping it open. Xander was too sleepy to be annoyed. Next went the sweatpants, pulled off him with one sharp tug.

"What are you doing?" Xander laughed, forcing himself to look up just in time to see Spike click the cap of a bottle of black liquid with his teeth.

"I'm going to write. On you," he said, brow furrowed as he concentrated on dipping his fingers in the black body ink and moving them across Xander's chest, careful precision, tip of his tongue poking from his mouth.

"Alright," Xander sighed, shutting his eyes again, feeling Spike's warm lips sweep across his brow just before he sank completely into sleep.

Xander had learned a lot about Spike's moods in the three weeks they had been together. He'd learnt that certain twitches in his fingers meant he was deciding something, that a tilt of his head meant intense curiosity or deep thought, that bared teeth meant he was horny, angry or both. The others, the band members and girlfriends, when they saw Spike in one of his Manic Moods, one of the days when he was so energetic it hurt, destructive and laughing - they thought it was funny. They tolerated him with a fond roll ot their eyes and ignored him when he ranted about everything from German impressionist paintings to the poetry of Poe. They never noticed the dark spectre in Xander's face - the uneasy anticipation. Because there was a serious downside to these hours of soaring pleasure, of fucking like live wires crossing in a darkened room. The downside was the subsequent low.

"Once told me you'd like to be up there forever,
Spend eternity in unnatural light.
Platform of divinity, immortal,
‘till the Devil swallowed the sun," words sung under his breath off key, hands busy with a slice of metal.

"What are you doing?" Xander asked standing frozen in the open doorway, eyes fixed on the man sitting on the edge of the bath. He was naked, feet and ankles blue grey dipped in a few inches of cooling water, intense concentration on his hands. "Spike?" Xander's voice was flat, so calm and unaffected though his whole body was so stuck, too much blood racing through him, attacking him from the inside out.

Spike's shoulders jumped, his hand jerking so the blade formed a thin red strip on his arm. He looked up, dark circles beneath his eyes, hurt child unable to hide behind smudged mascara and battered leather.

"She left me, Xan. She left me in my dream all over again," he said, words just slurred enough to tell Xander he had been drinking.

This wasn't right. It wasn't like those movies where you walk in and the person about to do it, to do it, was crying and shaking and spilling all their problems. Spike wasn't crying or screaming, wasn't poised elegantly so the camera could get a tasteful shot of his beautiful pale skin with crimson splashing over it. People in movies never jumped off buildings - they could always be talked down. Only in real life, Xander didn't know what to say.

"Who left you?" he asked, locking his knees because he was worried he might fall over.

"Cecily," Spike said, followed by a short bark of laughter that made Xander's ears hurt. "No, just messin'," and the slur was more pronounced now, Xander could practically hear the thick sludge of booze weighing on Spike's tongue. "Dru. My Drusilla. Sucked the words right out of me when she left, the bitch. Fucking crazy cu ..." he paused, looked around him, found what he was looking for and laughed that hacking, mirthless laugh again. It was an empty bottle of Jack, lying on the tiles behind him. One that had been full when Xander had left.

There were yellow and purple bruises creeping up the back of Spike's thighs, Xander could see them, wondered how on earth he'd managed it ... but Spike could do pretty much anything if he was determined enough. "Why did you leave, Xan?" he asked, attention back and focused on Xander's face with an unnerving intensity.

"Because you asked me to," Xander reminded him, flash of Spike's locked door and the shouted 'go the fuck away' Xander had been confronted with that morning. He'd walked away, no argument - he tried not to argue if he could help it. He was too afraid of Fucking Things Up, of losing what had been the best three weeks of his life. He had friends now, not the 's', friends plural, something he'd never had before. Xander was, in more ways than he'd care to admit, was still that kid from high school who tried to make jokes and was summarily ignored and dismissed by all who looked at him. So, arguing with the gorgeous man who had asked you to join him on tour and who regularly demanded unbelievably good sex? Not on Xander's top ten list of 'stuff I want to do'.

He still wasn't sure where the line was, where the songs and the lyrical whimsy ended and where reality began. Some nights Spike would whisper his undying love and devotion, others he'd bury himself in whoever was standing nearest and act as though Xander were more like his favourite hobby or obsession than an actual person. However, Xander was pretty sure that letting his lover slice his own wrists (and oh God why was he still standing in the doorway when this was happening) would constitute as Fucking Things Up.

"Oh. So I did. Sorry 'bout that, love," Spike said, head tilted back now, staring at the stains on the ceiling. Xander stepped forward, took his hands, forced the blade from his fingers. "Need that," Spike mumbled, nodding towards the razor blade. Xander wrapped his arms around the smaller man, uncomfortably aware of just how much smaller Spike was for the very first time, and pulled him to his feet. "You smell nice," Spike said into his hair, hands coming up to twist, lips pushing sloppily against the hollow of his neck. Xander lead him through to the bedroom, dark in comparison the the white light of the bathroom, sat him on the bed of yellowed sheets and a blanket with holes burnt in them by forgotten cigarettes. Spike lay back, threw an arm across his eyes, not shifting when Xander moved beside him and pulled the blanket over both of them.

"I'm sorry she left you," Xander said quietly. And he was, in a way. Sorry that someone left Spike like this, made him the small man with too much bleach who sat at the edge of the bath and looked so pathetic it made Xander ache. This shadow.

"S'alright. You won't leave me. Love you," Spike said. turning over, resting his head on Xander's shoulder and pulling him closer. His hold was too tight - it was hurting, pinching his skin and pulling at muscle. Xander knew he'd have bruises later, dark reminders of this completely different man who was clinging to him as though they may both disappear. Xander didn't say a word.

Note: the lyrics are written by the fic's author, and the song is called "Swallow it Down"

home | fiction | essays | got canon? | about us | faq