snoopygirll wanted Spander, so here's my first attempt at some NC-17 slash. Post-"Destiny", S/X, semi-graphic sex inside. Rather bleak, to say the least.
At three, it's still raining so they're all sent home. Xander stays an hour longer, double-checking the electrician's bid. Has to work harder, because he's lucky to even have this job.
A half-hour drive back to the depressing apartment in the Valley. When he lets himself inside, Spike's sprawled out on the sofa, watching some stupid dating show.
"I thought you were going to the office today."
"Didn't feel like it."
Xander rolls his eyes and ignores the three dirty glasses of blood on the coffee table. Gets himself a beer out of the fridge, then retreats to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He leans back against the headboard and pulls out the "How to Learn Spanish in a Weekend" tapes he'd bought. All the other assistant foremen speak it, and he's gotta keep up with them.
In the living room, the TV volume shoots way up. Xander wonders whether Spike'll come in now or wait until all the good shows are over.
Spike's mouth is cool at first, but it warms as he licks a line along the notch where hip meets leg. Slow, long licks, his tongue tapping the tendons and whorls of hair. He kisses the soft skin there, sucking just a little on the crease between hair and cock. Then his mouth slips up, up the length of Xander's cock and settles there, chapped lips brushing against the head. God, it's so good.
Xander almost always closes his eyes during this part. Easier to pretend. Once in a while he'll reach down, just for a touch. If he squints, he can pretend the blond hair between his fingers is Anya's. Except she was never this soft, this languid. Still, it's enough to let him slip into the haze of memory.
"Buffy... watch your back... no... take it...."
Sometimes Spike says her name when he's asleep. It's like he's saying everything he never did back then, and the strange part is that it's like he becomes someone else in those half-conversations. No snark, no evil. Just this soft murmur that tells Xander more about their relationship than he ever wants to know.
He sighs and slips out of bed. When he looks back at the bed, Spike's sprawled out over the covers, stomach glistening with half-dried come. Xander's never tasted it, because if he doesn't, he can pretend just a little longer. But tonight he stares at the way it shines a little in the half-light coming through the window.
He runs one finger through the mess, coating it with the sticky wetness. The touch makes the other man stir, so Xander yanks his hand back. Still asleep, though, and Xander brings it up to his lips. It tastes familiar, the same way his own tasted on all those dark nights of jerking himself off through the insomnia. And the first thought that hits him is that they're not really all that different, after all. Just men, though one doesn't have a heartbeat to warm his come.
Grimacing at the thought, Xander stalks out of the bedroom, grabbing and yanking on his sweatpants along the way. He goes out onto the balcony to stare at the other apartment buildings looming around them. Smells the ozone still in the air from the thunderstorm earlier. The night air is cool, but not too cool. Besides, his body's still hot from ... that.
Though he tries to concentrate on what he's supposed to do at work tomorrow, he comes back to those words Spike had whispered in his sleep. Xander remembers being in love with Buffy once, or maybe it was just a crush.
He wonders why Spike still loves her.
What's the point of loving anyone? They just die in the end.
Breakfast is leftover pizza from two nights ago. He should probably be taking better care of himself, but he's already lost twenty pounds from working so damn hard. He's given up on being healthy, anyway, which is stupid because he's supposed to have everything to live for now, right? The Hellmouth is closed, and they're no longer at the Orange Threat Level for apocalypses.
He wonders if the threat's just shifted to Cleveland, but phone updates from Buffy and Faith there have gotten fewer and farther between. That's a good thing, he tells himself. That part of his life is over, and he's relieved.
Except some parts of it never go away, like Spike showing up at his doorstep three weeks ago. "Don't have anywhere else to go," he'd muttered. "Last thing I want is one of those fucking penthouse apartments like Angel's." And though Xander had bitched like hell at first, he's depressed to realize how glad he is to have that familiar face around, even if it is Spike.
Sometimes he wonders why Buffy never asks about Spike; then he remembers that he hasn't told her the vamp's around. God, last thing he needs is to get involved in that shit again. And though he wonders why Spike hasn't said he wants to talk to Buffy when she calls, he thinks he understands.
It's all about letting go and moving on, isn't it? Making the best of what crap you've got, because it's gotta get better someday.
He's still waiting for someday to happen.
When Spike saunters into the kitchen, Xander pours him a cup of blood without even thinking. Gotten into a routine now, they have.
"Gonna go up to Wolfram & Hart today?"
"Dunno. Maybe. Depends on whether I can stomach the idea of seeing that bastard."
Xander finishes the pizza, tosses the crust in the trash, and grabs his briefcase. "You'd better not be here when I get home."
"Oh, really?" Spike grins, a blood mustache on his upper lip. "Admit it, poof. You want me here to greet you, maybe wearing one of those frilly pink aprons."
Xander ignores him as he slams the front door behind him.
No frilly pink apron when he gets home a little after six. Spike's sprawled out on the sofa again, this time watching CNN and bitching about something-or-another that the commentator is saying.
It's been a royal shit of a day. Brian tried to take over his segment of the project, and the foreman didn't inspire confidence when he mentioned that quarterly reviews are coming up.
He's so goddamned fucking sick of his life. He's sick of it all.
So he strips naked before he loses his nerve. Grabs the lube he bought online and paid for with shame, and rips off the plastic around the cap. Pretends not to notice the surprise in Spike's eyes as he tosses it onto the floor and bends down to brace his hands on the edge of the bed.
"Do it," he growls. And God, his heartbeat deafens him as he waits for it to happen.
Never done this before, but he knows it's going to hurt like hell. Dicks aren't supposed to go there, but he's beyond giving a damn. It's gotta feel good, right? Otherwise, why would gay-men-who-are-not-him do it?
Except when he feels Spike come up behind him, it's not at all what he expected. Wet hands already slick with lube, one reaching for his dick and the other pressing between the cleft of his ass. He feels soft kisses on his shoulder blade, and Spike's warm voice whispers, "Hold still, pet. Relax."
And then his... it presses into his ass. Slow and warm and soft, inch-by-inch. It's wet and hard, and holy fuck. Yeah, it hurts a little, but not so much. It's just good.
He feels Spike moving in and out, just a little at a time. Languid again, and smooth. He's never felt so full before, like there was a part that was empty until now. And when Spike begins to coax his cock with a whisper-sharp touch, Xander falls forward onto the bed, bringing this strange and strangely beautiful man with him.
In and out, so full, so goddamned full. So fucking amazing, and he feels almost light as his cock and ass both tingle and melt.
"So good, pet," Spike murmurs. "Is it good for you?"
Xander closes his eyes and just lets himself feel. "Yeah, it's good."