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 Seven
White lines of moonlight reflected on a strip of mirror, more white lines across it’s smoother surface – though those lines were tangible. Rough and real, scratching up his nose and grinding down his throat, raw with screams and laughter.
This was his distraction, his habit between habits. His longest addiction had been glorious. Dru, with her dark swirls of eyes and sickly sweet giggles, leather and lace, little girl in lust. Wrong, glittered with imperfections. In those flaws, Spike found his salvation. But like all things easily amused, his darling was easily displeased. She was as fickle as Spike was devoted and there was an irresistible draw to the woman who was destined to destroy him. Some called it masochism but he preferred to think of it as a sort of optimism. However, optimism didn’t fare well against reality.
Snap of her whimsy, one barked and of course he obeyed like her - her little sniveling bitch, William, rescued from his tears to find a new fixation. She killed herself on a Tuesday; wandered off the edge of a 13 story building, calling for an angel. His wicked plum came to a … well, to say ‘sticky end’ would be tacky, wouldn’t it? He’d blamed himself for a while, taken an impromptu holiday to Prague, one that he fondly referred to as his ‘guilt trip’.
And now he was searching - crawling through bars and clubs, face to the sky or the dirt, no middle ground with Spike, always the extreme. And it wasn’t long. Not long at all before he saw the face, clean and fresh in a room of grime.
Clothes a whirlpool of gaudy colours he looked like he was drowning beneath. Awkward movements, stiff arms and a sort of disconnected discomfort that stood out amongst the bodies of elegance and rhythm. With their skintight scraps of cloth and jaded smiles, inviting gazes and tongues darting to lips, they spoke in silent communication without a need for pesky things like words.
The boy notices Spike’s intent stare and his shoulders stiffen, a defense preceding the attack. Spike grins, understanding. They were comrades in paranoia. He slides to his feet, ignores the calls of the girls around him as he crashes through the crowd – a mockery of Moses parting the oceans. They meet at the center of the dance floor and he easily slips his tongue into the boy’s mouth, crushes their lips together and drags his hand through dark curls. He felt the boy start, surprised, because this boy doesn’t speak the primal language of the dancers. He is isolated, dismissed. Spike smiles into the hiss and pulls away to whisper in his ear, serpent of temptation, bible references of his youth spinning in his head as he sported a hard on. William knew he was fucked up, Spike reveled in it.
“You’re new. But I can translate for you.” He licks down the boy’s neck and laughs softly at the shudder. “That means I like you.” And now his hands drifted across the boy’s nipples, hard through the shirt. “That means I want you.” The hands moved lower, fingers pressing against the rough scratch of jeans. “That means I want you … now.”
The boy pulls away, plump lip caught in his teeth, flash of indecision. “You don’t even know my name,” unjustified anger, perhaps embarrassment. He looked ready for the punch line, for Spike to be cruel and hateful.
“Your name is …” Spike trails off, pulls the boy off the floor and into a dark corner that smells of sweat and spilled drinks. He takes the boy’s hand and licks up his palm, eyes promising. His reaction came in the form of a hiss, a sharp twist of hips, brown eyes shivering black. The boy grinned. His own revolution found in an instant, solace in anonymity.
“I think I’m learning the language,” he said, bold move forward so their faces with inches apart.
Spike lead him outside and he knew he’d chosen this new habit well.
“Do you remember how we met?” Spike asked left Schönefeld Airport. Xander stared at him incredulously.
“Do you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” And Spike could pull off innocent if he widened his eyes just so and tilted his head at a 48 degree angle. He was well practiced. Xander was unimpressed and he snorted with laughter.
“It means that I recall somebody had been getting crazy with crack that night,” he said with his voice lowered, eyes flitting across the face of those around them – caution and responsibility, his Xan. Well, if there was one thing Spike had learnt, it was that all good things needed balance. So if Xander was going to be responsible then it was his cosmic duty to …
“What the … Spike!”
“I love you more than marmite,” Spike announced as he walked into the hotel room. Xander stuffed something into a drawer.
“I love syphilis more than marmite,” he replied, busying himself with the bed sheets.
“Heathen,” Spike said good naturedly. He dove without warning. Xander didn’t have a chance in hell at grabbing whatever he’d been hiding before Spike did. “What …”
How disappointing. It was a book. And the cover didn’t imply any kinky sexual instructions. Spike’s eyes flicked over the title and he paused. Read it again. Once more before he raised an eyebrow and looked up at a squirming Xander.
“Trainspotting. ‘The dislocated tales that lay bare the hearts of darkness of the junkies, wide-boys and psychos’,” he read from the blurb. Xander had flushed and was an interesting shade of burgundy. If Spike was feeling facetious he might have said ‘cherry’.
“I just … I want to understand, but you won’t …” he gave up and shut his eyes for a moment. A fuck or a fight, that was the question, because this was going to end one way or the other. Spike dropped the book and crawled over the covers.
“Wrong sort of book, love. This is about the Scots, innit? I’m from England. Whole different kettle of fish,” he said seriously. Xander sighed with something like relief but didn’t get the chance to pull air back in because Spike was already on top of him. That was good. He’d just have to breathe in Spike.
“Spike is … listen, if you want to get out? You need to get out soon,” Angel had said as they sat in the van, waiting for the others. Xander had nodded wordlessly. He didn’t like the guy, he’d always seemed to be one of those holier than thou types – Spike had told him Angel used to be into some of the heavy stuff, had hurt a lot of people under the influence and had spent every waking moment since then feeling guilty about it. However – he did have a point. Time seemed to be slipping past at an ever increasing rate, music and promises, cigarettes and drama.
Try as he might there was no denying it - Spike was getting erratic, more than usual, and Xander knew it was one of those ‘now or never’ things. He could stay, he should go. He didn’t know if he wanted to do either. He stared out the window, watched as Spike burst out of the shop in noiseless chaos – the window muting the world outside. He spun with his arms flung out, mouth moving around words that were flung into the night. Xander recognized the muffled tune, could recall the words.
“We shared that sentiment,
Though we didn’t share many.
I thought we shared that,
But we didn’t share any.”
He watched as the sidewalk cleared, people pulling away from the crazy man singing words nobody understood. Poor Berlin. They had no idea what had been released onto their shores.
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