So that was it, then? One more time with a woman he'd loved--still loved, just not in that forever, approaching-the-altar, union-of-two-souls kind of way--and here he sat on the back porch, staring up at a dark cloudy sky. The beer bottle was going warm in his hand where it dangled between his legs. Feeling something thick and heavy settle in his gut.
Hunger? Shut up. He swigged the beer and peered into the dark yard. Nothing but shapes in several shades of, well, dark.
Fear? The First was out there, watching, scheming...but when hadn't he felt afraid? Even before anyone told him anything about vampires and demons, a Hellmouth under his feet, he'd been afraid of something. Crashes and raised voices, empty threats that weren't so empty when you were four-feet-something and they came from the two people in the world who were supposed to love you. And since then, very much of the fear, constant so that priorities like life and death started losing some of their sharp edges and bled out a little, paled in a way he figured was several decades early.
Lonely? He knew what lonely felt like. Felt it all the way through high school, even more afterwards as his friends drifted away into college and he'd embarked on his impressive career of fucking up just about every job he managed to talk himself into. Lonely was like fear; feel enough of it, and it got to be almost comfortable, almost habitual. It was scritchy, like wearing an ugly new sweater, only all. the. time. Anya soothed that for a good long while, but it wasn't fair to treat someone like human fabric softener. God knows, he'd done that to Willow for long enough, for most of their adolescence.
Resignation? That was getting closer. He wasn't going to be able to do anything. He never really had been able to do anything beyond crack wise and give a good bear hug, and sometimes, that had been enough. Not anymore. They all seem determined to give this We're-an-Army thing a real shot, and he wasn't Soldier Boy, never really had been. And Construction Guy had had his ass fired after missing another day of work. He was Carpenter Boy now, and that was...great. He'd hammer window sashes back into place through the Apocalypse.
Xander sighed and took another pull off the beer. At the rate he was going, he'd be Depresso-Boy. Melancholy Man. Ruminating Runt.
Voices and footfalls in the house behind him, the familiar thump of weapons on the hall floor, a light clicking on in the kitchen. He edged closer to the railing, out of the thrown light, and had another swallow. Quieter now, and he looked back up at the sky, watched a ragged lost cloud dip to the dull horizon.
"Think too hard, and you'll give yerself wrinkles." Voice behind him, raspy English voice.
Xander lifted the beer, over his head, not turning.
"Right then. Not thinking."
Spike dropped beside him, extending his legs and nudging Xander's hips. "Any more?"
Xander reached down to the bottom step and handed Spike the six-pack. Well, it was a two-pack now. Spike sighed, and Xander glanced over. Spike held a bottle outstretched, turning it in the light from the kitchen.
"Molson?"
"No one said you had to mooch, blondie."
"Least it's not that Yank swill you used to pour down your throat."
Xander finished his beer and leaned over to drop the empty into the six-pack. He reached for the last full bottle, and a cold hand gripped his wrist.
::::::::::::::::::
Spike clucked his tongue against his teeth. "Now, now, Harris. Easy there." He squeezed harder, feeling Xander's pulse thrum in his grip. He loosened his fingers, and Xander slid his hand back.
"Used to be much more interesting, you know," Spike said. He lit a smoke and inhaled raggedly. The fight in the school's hallways hadn't taken much out of him, but then again, it hadn't put much into him, either. He drummed his free hand on a knee and looked around. Jittery.
"What?"
He looked at Xander, the dark head hanging loosely, watching his fingers knit themselves together between his knees. Knit, free, tangle again.
"What what?"
Xander breathed, and Spike felt him tense. He knew this mood better. Get irritated with the vamp, sputter, and slink away. This mood, he could deal with. Might even be fun--the irritation, anyway. Xander always gave up too soon.
"What used to be much more fun?"
Spike grinned. "Oh, that. Drowning your sorrows, mate. That was much more fun. With--"
"Blood, right?" Xander cracked his knuckles and Spike winced at the sound. Fought the urge to grab the nearest hand and squeeze the fingers together, show the pup what a real crack sounded like.
"Absinthe, actually." Spike took another a drag, tilting his head toward Xander and blowing a thin stream of smoke at the dark head. "I meant absinthe."
"You're reading Andrew's Anne Rice stash again, aren't you?" Xander shook his head at the smoke, but didn't turn.
"What else'm I supposed to do? Bloody boring down in that basement. Hate basements. Always have."
"Funny, and I thought you'd liked holing up in mine." Xander stretched his arms out, fingers still knit together, and turned to Spike. "You were always so cheerful down there."
Spike grinned again, thankful at least to be talking to a face rather than a tangle of overly-long curls. He cocked one eyebrow and held the gaze. Xander blinked at him, slowly, and Spike took in the brush of lashes on cheek. Spike's leg jittered again, and he drank his beer, still looking at Xander over the bottle and cigarette.
Xander looked back down.
"You had cable, though, didn't you? Better'n soft-core inaccurate shite paperbacks, innit?"
Xander looked up again, and smiled. //There you go, pet. Not so hard, is it?//
"You're weird, Spike."
Cocked the eyebrow again and smirked. "That what I've fallen to? Big Bad's now just...weird?"
"Weird." Xander's eyes dropped, but his head stayed up. "And different."
Spike took a drag and flicked the butt away. It arced in the darkness, sparks flying out, and vanished into a hedge.
"Different?"
Xander's brows creased together, and Spike got the feeling he was looking at him for the first time. Not that that was possible--he'd spent more time with Xander than he'd had with just about any of them. Probably even Buffy. Still, the look held, and Spike steeled himself. The jitters were gone, drawn out into something tenser, thinner, running up his limbs and through his spine.
"Does it to you every time. The soul, I mean." He said it quietly, not leaving Xander's eyes. Dark in the dark, but gleaming.
Xander shook his head. Curls brushed his forehead and temples and Spike smiled, slowly.
::::::::::::::::::
Spike was different. Still compact and strong, sure, with the crankiest mouth on him this side of Hell, but...different. In the eyes? He squinted, searching the shadowed blue for some sign, some clue, but --
"'Course you are, too. Different," the vampire said.
"Yeah? Like how? In the fixer-upper-dependable-handyman kind of way? Or the shunted-aside-sidekick, sorry, Xan, there's better sarcasm to be had, kind of way? Or the stand helplessly by..."
"Shut up, Harris." Spike glared at him, eyes narrowing and tone low. Controlled. Xander felt an old shiver in his chest. Right, that was fear. Good old fear.
"Right, because the stand helplessly by? Had that covered sophomore year."
Spike pounded the stair and Xander shivered again. Not shivered; it was stronger. Buffy's talking-to had brought the old Spike back, the pissed-off, run out and beat something to a slimy pulp Spike.
"Different. Like new," Spike muttered. "New to you, at any rate."
Xander exhaled, willing the fear to dissolve. He'd done this before, he could handle mean Spike.
::::::::::::::::::
Spike relaxed the fist that hit the stair and found himself reaching over, towards Xander. The boy--//not a boy, he told himself. Grown up now, hadn't he? Lost the baby fat, lost the dopey look in his eyes//--the man Xander had become didn't flinch, but he didn't move, either.
"Different," Spike murmured. His anger was gone, and the adrenaline from the fight was long gone. He rubbed his thumb over Xander's chin, almost brushed the full bottom lip.
::::::::::::::::::
Mean Spike, yes. He knew Mean Spike well. But--who was this? Xander studied the pale face, felt a rough thumb skate over his chin. Tender Spike? Seductive--no! Not Seductive Spike.
He let out a sigh he hadn't known he was holding.
"Still got the self-pity, though, don't you?" Spike whispered, tilting Xander's chin towards him.
Towards him?
Xander tried to grin, tried for the 'Hey-just-ignore-stupid, he-knows-not-what-he-says' grin. Tried, and --
Failed. Spike was closer now, and Xander fought to find one more thing to say, something to...what? Stop him?
"Yeah, that's still there," he found himself saying. "Not that, you know, you should talk."
Spike's thumb pressed harder against his skin, and it wasn't cold any more. Had it been cold? He didn't remember. Pressed on his lip, pressed almost all the way to the teeth. Xander gasped. Goodbye, fear. Hello--?
::::::::::::::::::
Spike held Xander still, covered his lip with a warning finger, and leaned in. His hand slipped away, down to Xander's chest, as his lips brushed Xander's. Warm lips met his and Spike slipped his other hand around Xander's waist, squeezing his waistband, slipping into that little hollow, right at the small of his back. Spike ran his tongue over Xander's lips, slowly, tasting the beer, and below that, Xander. Just Xander, faintly bitter but mostly sweet. He felt Xander shake and gasp again, and slipped his tongue inside as he tightened his grip on the man's shirt, tugging him closer.
::::::::::::::::::
Hello, Spike.
Cool, soft tongue in his mouth, fluttering over his. //Really soft--what did he expect?// Shut up, brain. Xander edged closer, meeting Spike's tongue with his own, and they slipped around each other, almost twining, and the sparks skittered down toward his groin. He felt Spike's hands grip him, one in front, one in--oh, shit. One just over his ass. A cold finger slipped down, under the elastic of his briefs, resting just over the cleft.
He kissed Spike harder, feeling his own hand clutch the vampire's hip, the other go to his hair. //Spike always had such cool hair, Billy Idol jokes be damned.// It crinkled in his fingers, and Xander grinned in the kiss, distracted by thoughts of hair gel purchased by the vat.
Right, kissing. Concentrate on that. Hand on his ass. Over his ass, actually, but that was...He grinned again, and Spike took the opportunity, driving his tongue in deep, sliding his finger between Xander's ass cheeks.
::::::::::::::::::
Warm and sweet. Spike ran his tongue over Xander's, welcoming the adrenaline back, feeling it spark up through his mouth, down to his cock, down his arms.
He wriggled his finger, caught tightly in the cleft of Xander's ass, and tugged Xander forward.
Too hard, because here they were, rolling in the cold grass, until Xander was half over him, half under him, all the blood singing in his veins. Spike broke the kiss and slipped another finger down. Xander was looking down at him, mouth open, breathing hard. His eyes looked glazed. Spike could smell him, richer now, and cocked his brow, licking his lips. Xander smiled, almost lazily, and Spike thrust up shortly, grinding his hard-on against Xander's hip and digging his fingers against his ass.
If he had breath, he would have held it, waiting to see what the boy //man, damn it!// would do.
