Reaching out to embrace the random.
Reaching out to embrace whatever may come.
- Lateralus, by Tool
He can't kill. Can't hurt, can't maim, can't even fucking feed himself. He's a worthless thing, worse than Xander, even, the man at the absolute bottom of the food chain as far as he's concerned. It disgusts him. It eats away at the edges of his resolve, and he's not sure which he'd welcome more, death or insanity.
He itches to feel soft flesh giving beneath his agile fingers. To feel it dip and bruise, and he can remember the sound the blood makes when the small capillaries are broken, turning the skin his favorite shade of purple. It's not something easily forgotten, not when every particle of his body screams for it.
Xander stopped tying him up at nights. Another blow. Spike hated him more every day, and he hated himself for giving in as easily as he did. He hated how it was expected of him to no longer be a nocturnal creature, to no longer feel the pull of the moon and the stars and the absence of the sun.
Sometimes he waits to hear Xander's soft snores, and then waits a bit longer before going to the bed. He moves his hand an inch above the peaceful form, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He thinks that if he can think hard enough at the chip as he lashes it, it may break the hold somehow. It's a small hope, but one that he clings to, if only because it's the only reason besides cowardice that he's got to keep on existing.
When he brings his hand down hard, aiming to slap or to muffle screams, the pain is always just as glaring. Every night, the same experiments, with the same results.
Spike has never been a patient demon.
He thinks about rousing Xander as the pain subsides sometimes. Shaking him gently awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, and asking if he can hurt him. If he has permission it might be okay. If he's allowed to cut and bruise and drink, maybe there wouldn't be any pain.
He knows it's impossible, but thinking it is enough of an escape most nights that he doesn't mind. It's the illusion of the reality he used to live in that is enough for him.
If he stares at Xander for long enough he has to leave, has to go outside and smoke a cigarette and jerk off thinking about that pale, perfect skin so close and so impossibly far away. He hurts himself doing that, squeezing too tightly, gripping his own thigh until his undead skin burns with the same whispering pain he used to inflict on others.
It is only moderately satisfying.
He is growing more and more desperate for something. For anything. He's thought about getting a tattoo just for the hell of it, and it'd give him something else to think about for a few days. He is afraid, though, when it came down to it. Afraid of going into a place where so many people bled every day and being unable to act on it. Better just to be dead than to go through that.
He is becoming more reclusive, and he knows that Xander has noticed. He's never said anything about it - that damned kid is nothing if not avoidant, perfectly content to babble about the useless and inane, and terrified of anything with depth.
No wonder that insane demon woman wanted him so badly. He is absolutely nothing to lose; there is no bottom of the barrel to scrape after you fucked Xander Harris.
And yet for some reason Spike is drawn to him. Every night he sits in the ghastly ugly chair and watches the other man sleep and imagines taking him. Hurting him and fucking him and making him scream, and usually he wouldn't care if it is from pleasure or from pain. He could just about feel the tickling in his brain as he imagined doing things to that man, bringing him to the very edge of pain.
He grits his teeth and storms away from the tempting white skin and delicious innocence. He hides in the small bathroom, not wanting to go out in the rain that has been pattering down for over two hours now, and lights his fourth cigarette of the night. He wishes it would kill him. It would be a more pleasant way to die than wooden stakes and sunlight.
He's almost done smoking when he hears the soft shuffling footsteps approaching the door. Fucking Harris, always gotta ruin a good smoke. The only good Xander, Spike thinks as he snuffs his cigarette in the sink, is a sleeping Xander.
"What are you doing in there, Spike?"
Xander's voice is heavy with sleepiness, and Spike can almost see his bleary eyes in his mind. He stands up and tosses the door open, his arms spread wide in front of him.
"A vamp's got needs too, you sodding idiot."
Xander narrows his eyes and then speaks, his voice unusually serious. "Why were you watching me earlier?"
"Oh for cryin' out loud, Harris, does it matter?" He shoves past the boy, irritated that he hadn't noticed when Xander woke up. He's slipping.
"Yes. I don't want to get eaten by you," Xander replies, turning around but not moving any closer. Spike smiles slyly and flops down on the bed, his hands pillowed behind his head.
"Couldn't if I wanted to, unless you let me." He thinks for a second and then adds "And even then it'd have to be a different kind of eating, luv."
"You. You are a sick, sick man." Spike can smell Xander's blush through the darkness, and it makes him smile more. He makes no move to get up as the other man approaches, and doesn't change his position when Xander begins to push him out of bed. "Get off, Spike. I have to go to work and I can kick your sorry ass out if you don't let me get some sleep."
Spike acquiesces just a little and then, moving with demon speed, he wraps an arm around the startled man's back, pulling him down for a deep kiss.
And there it is. Everything he'd needed. The scent of fear, the twinge in his brain as his chip started to fire, the hot body above him, full of blood and anger and fear and life. Spike wants to devour it all.
Xander tries to pull away, and Spike holds him tightly. He's not hurting him, just scaring him, and that's really enough. It's half of what he'd been craving, and for now it'll do.
He growls when Xander finally begins to melt into it a little and then flips them over in a fluid motion that elicits a soft, startled cry from the other man.
"W-what are you doing? You're freaking me out, Spike, get off." The command is only half hearted, and Spike can smell the arousal beginning to rise in the other man. He smirks and begins to kiss him again, short little wet ones that soften the lips and make them swell.
Xander keeps trying to talk, babbling stupid little nonsenses that Spike shushes with his kisses. He wraps his hands around Xander's arms, squeezing until he feels just the slightest twinge and then grins.
"Why are you smiling?" Xander asks breathlessly.
"I want to fuck you."
"You. Want to. NO." Xander begins to struggle and he twists his body so that Spike's grip is tightened, sending a shock of pain through him.
"Oh bloody fucking hell!"
"I'm sorry," Xander says, and Spike looks up at him, startled. Xander looks as amazed at the words as Spike does, his eyes large, and he tentatively reaches out to touch the vampire's arm.
"I mean, uh. Maybe some other time. When I don't have to get up in three hours and go to work."
Spike looks at him, searching his face for that little twist at the corner of his mouth or the nervous twitch of an eyelid that says 'as soon as you turn your back you're dust you motherfucker'. He can't find it. With a small smile he leans forward for another kiss, deeper this time.
"Go back to sleep you bloody idiot."
He could really use another smoke. And maybe he'll catch Xander alone tomorrow.