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 Nine
There had to be something coming. Something big and scary and real, some grand plot point to jerk him out of this perpetual whirl, tastes of a life that wasn’t his. Xander sometimes wondered what it would be – the Sign.
Maybe someone would have an OD; nose to the floor, chest heaving, Dawn’s pretty eyes flutter and flatten with her sister screaming her name all the while. Maybe he would walk in on Spike with someone else, tangible proof of what he’d always known; “Never stop,” he gasps, fingers clutching bedsheets Xander had washed that morning, hips thrusting up into her – lips slick red and a designer smile. Or maybe Spike would find him backstage, laughing as he bled out onto the couch cushions, a final fuck you; “Xan, what did you do!?”
“Made sure you’d remember me,” he laughs through spiced wine blood and a flash of spite.
It had been weeks since he’d first been pulled into Spike’s head, a scary place where you hurtled and crashed through everything, no time for silly things like breathing. No sign had come, no Passions moment where Spike would cock his head, dark rings around his eyes, and ask for one of those AA pamphlets Xander had surreptitiously left on the top of the suitcase. Nothing like that. There were just minutes, hours, days that bled into one another until time became this abstract idea that didn’t apply to them anymore.
“You’ve torn your dress, your face is a mess,
You can’t get enough, but enough ain’t the test,
You’ve got your transmission and your live wire ...”
They’d probably been holed up in their room of hours, but the curtains were drawn so he couldn’t really tell. Records and weed, cross dressing and laughter, echoes of an era neither of them had lived. “I can’t believe you went out dressed like that. I mean a dare’s a dare but …” Xander winced, fingers brushing across lace. Spike threw his head back, arched his neck as though the material was an extension of his body, a new erogenous zone he hadn’t been aware of. Xander gulped.
“I love it when you stroke my frock,” Spike told him with absolute sincerity. He managed to keep it up a whole three seconds before he burst out laughing and pulled Xander’s mouth to his, teeth clicking, lips tongue fuck.
“That had to be the lamest play on words ever,” Xander managed, pulling his hands down the black corset, leather and friction, what more could a man want?
“Your cruelty only serves to turn me on,” Spike said against his jaw, pushing his shirt from his shoulders.
“Compost would turn you on,” Xander replied wryly, slight hitch in his breath as Spike’s tongue dragged down his chest, fingers clenched almost painfully in his hair. He pulled back for a second, wicked blue eyes staring up, swollen lips twisted into a tolerant smile.
“Only you would mention compost preceding a blow job.”
And Xander laughed harder than he had in years.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Spike said, cigarette in his mouth, clutching a cup of coffee. He hadn’t drunk any – just warming his hands on the flimsy cardboard till it cooled or fell apart, whichever happened first.
“I think I’m your coffee,” he said suddenly. Spike snorted.
“Gunn’s my coffee. You’re my …” he ran his fingers over Xander’s skin, pleased with the resulting shudder, “Cream.”
“Sorry man, I’m not your coffee,” Gunn threw in as he walked past, sharing a grin with the tiny woman tucked under his arm, Fred, all sweetness and laughter that defied her stark blue hair and PVC skirt. If there was one thing Xander had learnt in the past few weeks, it was that appearances were deceiving.
“Wish mum could’ve met you,” Spike mumbled into the toilet bowl, Xander’s arms slung loosely about his hips.
“Why, so we could compare notes on how to deal with you after you’ve thrown up your guts?” Xander asked, appearance of calm though his heart was pounding. Spike never spoke of his mother so he’d assumed she was the cause for some of his less attractive personality quirks. That she must have been one of those mom’s who forget their kids at supermarkets and never tried to hold back their husband when he lunged for their son. Like his mom.
“She would’ve loved you. Tell you off for letting me get so skinny, then tell me off for letting you get so skinny. Make us eat biscuits and pound cake ‘till we couldn’t shift from the sofa,” he continued, wistful and so very young.
“What happened to her?” he asked quietly, so afraid that if he spoke too much or too long, the moment would dissolve.
“Died. Forgot who she was in the end. Who I was. Scared shitless, she couldn’t even recognise my face. Said some awful things in the end, she did,” he said eventually, shivering as his breath hitched. Xander shut his eyes and held on.
“You ready?” Spike asked, tossing the coffee into the snow and nodding to the swinging doorway. The others were already inside.
“I think I might just go back to the hotel,” Xander shrugged, something he couldn’t put his finger on itching beneath his skin.
“No, come with me! I heard they have karaoke,” Spike said, grabbing his arm, petulant glare and a masterful pout.
“And karaoke is supposed to tempt me to come with you?” mock disgust and just a hint of distain, Xander was good at making like he was jaded. A new skill he’d acquired, one he found himself using more and more these days. Sometimes he wondered if he’d stopped having to pretend he was jaded a while ago.
“Karaoke with tequila,” Spike said in a sing song voice, tugging harder, “makes the worst Whitney song sound like classic AC/DC. Promise. Scout’s honour,” he said, holding up two fingers in what was most certainly not the boy scout’s salute. “I could sing something for you … I wanna fuck you like an animal,” rasping voice and a slide of his hips, Spike became Spike, the singer, the seducer, Xander his chosen prey.
“I guess,” he said reluctantly, smiling when Spike cheered and hauled him into the smoky little bar.
Later, when the world was tinged green with lights and Spike was leaning heavily on his side, unnaturally loud laugh and movements sluggish, the man serving drinks had turned to Xander with a look that could only be described as sympathetic. He’d bent so his lips were by Xander’s ear, yellow suit and startling red tie pulling Xander’s gaze to his face.
“Listen sweetcheeks, I’ll tell you this for nothing. That guy’ll only get you in trouble. You’d better be sure you’re prepared to deal with the fact that this ain’t going to be pretty when it ends,” he said. Xander frowned, opened his mouth to say something (though he didn’t know what), but the man had already disappeared into the shifting crowd of business suits and denim jackets.
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