By Darcy K.
Spoilers: None. Set in season 4, between "Doomed" and "A New Man"
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, 20th Century Fox, and whoever else may have a hold upon them; I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
Author's Note: This was written for the fourth round of the Buffy and Angel Lyric Wheel. The lyrics I was sent are here.
The title actually refers to an entirely different song that no one knows. E-mail me for the lyrics if you're interested.
I'd love feedback, as always.
Thanks: to sylfida for the lyrics.
"Don't even think it, bloodsucker. I'm armed. Stake, cross -- and I know how to use them."
Behind him, the gentle, almost undetectable swishing of steps halts, too, and a low chuckle sounds.
"Cocky, aren't we?"
He jumps with a barely-concealed shudder, then: "Oh, it's you. God damn it, Spike." The words are long-suffering, not-quite-threatening, and certainly growled. "For the fiftieth time, stay in the damned basement while we patrol if you're not going to help." His tone shifts, seeing how far it can press. "You know a neutered vamp like yourself could get hurt out here."
Spike stares at the boy, eyebrows arching. "You don't even know, whelp. I'm not the one in danger out here." A sudden movement blurs the shadows, causes Xander to step back in startlement, as he finds Spike's nose inches from his own. "But maybe you like danger." His voice is low and husky, now, and Xander's breath catches halfway up his throat, makes a nest. "Maybe you want to love it a little. Wanna be just like your precious Slayer." Then he smirks. "I'll be waiting for you in the basement." Turns away, melts into the darkness. "And don't call me neutered!"
Once he's gone, Xander still doesn't move. He can feel the vanished presence of Spike's body like an electrical charge against his own, the faint puffs of air that tickled his lips with each word that the vampire spoke. At last he shakes his head, grasps stake and cross more firmly, and heads off to find Willow.
"So very glad that Spike's moving out soon. Don't think I can stand much more of this." But he isn't quite sure what "this" is.
Eventually, Xander can put off going home no longer. He's come up with every excuse he can, from wanting to check a reference in one of Giles' books to insisting on walking the girls home. Both of those earn him very odd looks, but his friends, making themselves dear to his heart forever more, say nothing. Trouble is, he's not certain what's keeping him from his door. He's not exactly got cause to be afraid of an ex-Big Bad. And he refuses to contemplate what Spike might be planning.
Spike is there when he clambers down the stairs, as he has feared, as he has hoped. Collapsed bonelessly in the sagging loveseat, watching the flickering display of the old television with a bored expression. He doesn't move at Xander's rattling entry through the curtain of beads, so the boy tentatively clears his throat. Still no movement. Something that Xander calls relief but, in fact, might judge worryingly akin to disappointment were he to even dare think the thought, crawls into his heart, and he tiptoes behind the vampire to his bed, certain that Spike's shamming unawareness; quietly strips down to his boxers and climbs under the covers. Listening to the measured pulse of his own breathing, his eyes gradually drift closed.
He is inching his way across a black and glittering plain that spans infinity. Wriggling on his bare stomach, feeling the polished marble of the surface slide cold against his naked skin. Around him is nothingness; he moves forward toward no goal, and his erection drags against the smooth rock. Then words impinge on the edge of his consciousness, pull him inexorably back to reality.
"You really don't want to sleep through this."
Xander's eyes fly open on more blackness, but he can make out a pallid form not far above him. His first instinct, pursuant on that moment of sheer panic, is to check his neck for bite marks, but strong hands pin his arms down. "Quiet, whelp. Don't be a ninny."
Those hands glide along his arms and down his hips, while a rock-hard penis strains against his own. The wetness of an open mouth is trailed along his collarbones, down his sternum. His body is on fire, trembling, like it hasn't done with Anya or Cordy, and even Faith inspired only a pale imitation of this sensation. Fingers stroke the slick line of hair that runs down from his navel, cup the soft sac that dangles between his thighs. He can feel a new wetness on his belly, reaches between their bodies to find Spike's cock. His hand caresses its length, a familiar motion if a strange angle, and velvet skin slides under his palm. Steel sheathed in suede. But Spike murmurs "no," gently pries away his clutching fingers. Turns him, splays his hands on Xander's chest and stomach. And Xander feels a new burning, and his head is swimming, and the memories of his dream swallow him, friction against his erection drawing sensations from deep inside. "You'll break me in half," he manages to gasp out, "I swear." He can contain himself no longer, as much as he might try, and he knows he is near to bursting; and he clasps his own hands around Spike's as he strains, and there is a silent implosion, a warm spill against his fingers, and it cascades like silk.
When he opens his eyes again, Spike is sprawled on the loveseat, in a position that suggests he hasn't moved since Xander got home, watching early morning cartoons.
"High time you're awake. I'm fresh out of blood."
Xander sits up, feels his boxers pull against the mattress beneath him, blinks in puzzlement. Opens his mouth to say something, to question, to wonder, but stops himself. He's not entirely positive that he wants to know. "Get your own blood, fangless." Can he even use that name anymore?
"Nah, I'll be busy tonight. I'm moving, and I need my strength to pack." Moving? At last? Xander's not certain he can believe his ears.
"You're moving?" It's almost a squeak, and does he sound desperate? "Moving where?" Then, suspiciously, "What do you have to pack, anyway?"
The last question is ignored. "Think I'll try and find me a nice crypt. With, you know, a few cobwebs, not too many windows, couple of skeletons...." He pauses. "You and that demon girl of yours need some privacy, real bad. The bed squeaks something awful." Another pause, more awkward, more silences left unmade. "And don't think 'cos I'm talking we're friends. It's all a bit of unfriendly advice in honor of preserving my sanity. And no visiting my crypt after hours."
There's a hint of a leer to his expression, but Xander could be imagining it. Is he? Did he? Imagine the entire night? Once more, his mouth opens, but he shuts it without sound. Better not to ask. If he has insane fantasies about vampires, well then, it's not exactly unusual among his crowd. And if not, well... he's sure that once is definitely enough. He tries hard not to remember the feel of Spike's fingers, grasping, stroking. He knows he'll never tell anybody. But he does wonder if he'll ever really know, himself.
by Sneaker Pimps
take me down
the ground beneath your feet
laid out low
nothing to go
nowhere a way to meet.
i've got a head full of drought
down here, so far off
losing out, round here
Overground, watch this space
I'm open to falling from grace.
calm me down
bring it round
too way high off your street
i can see like nothing else
in me you're better than I wanna be.
don't think 'cos i understand i care
don't think 'cos i'm talking we're friends
talk me down, safe and sound, too
strung up to sleep
wear me out
scream and shout
swear my time's never cheap
i fake my life like i've lived;
i take whatever you're given;