Rating: G
Warnings: Angst
Summary: Because sometimes, you feel like writing something depressing.
Characters: S/X Xander’s POV
Disclaimer: I don't own them. All I have is the depressing mood I'm in.


Robin the Crossover Junkie

  2   3   4   5

Part One ~ The Nose ~ Roses

When he comes home to me at night, he smells like roses. I kiss him, and he moans, but his neck smells like roses.

I’ve smelled roses a lot, but this is different. I’ve never smelled roses on him. It would be different, I suppose, if he’d brought me roses, or been doing something with roses…but I know he has done neither.


Normally, he smells like cigarette smoke, leather, and just him. He never used to moan when I kissed him. He would whimper, and gasp, but never did he moan. And that scent clings to him.

He showers now, before we make love. He never used to shower before. We usually showered together, but the nights he comes home smelling like roses, he showers alone, and we make love quickly. Then, he showers alone again, to get rid of my smell.

Why wouldn’t he want to smell like me?

And why would he smell like roses?

I know the answer, but I don’t want to admit it to myself. She must be back in town. I always knew that if she came back, he would leave me. I never thought that he’d…go to her. At least not without leaving me. She must be back for him, but why hasn’t she taken him away? I know he would go. She is his maker. Sire. He loved her for a hundred years. He’s lived in my home for two, loving me. I can’t possibly hope to compare to blood, bonds, and roses.

It’s painful, to know that I have him here, but he’s not with me. He’s with her. It still doesn’t make any sense to me, why he hasn’t gone away with her. He spurned her for Buffy. Zapped her with a cattle prod, almost staked her. But that was different. With Buffy, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had gone to her…Buffy didn’t love him. He tried to prove his love to Buffy, and she was unreceptive.

Is that what I’m doing wrong? Is that why he won’t be with me? Because I love him as much, or more, than he loves me? If I told him that he could be with her, and I didn’t care, as long as he wasn’t with me, would that make him want to be with me? Instead of her?

It hurts inside, like needles jabbing themselves into my heart. Slicing through my skin like butter. Leaving me broken, bloody, and hurting.

He smells like roses.

It’s only right that he should prick me with the thorns.

Part Two ~ The Eyes ~ Windows

I’m glad I don’t have a reflection. I don’t think I could look myself in the face. I can barely look at him.

It’s not about lying. I’ve spent my entire life lying to people. Never to myself, not before this. But now I am. Lying to myself when I think he doesn’t notice. He notices.

I can see the look in his face, when I come home after I’ve been with her. I go to her in the evening, we fight and fuck, and I know I smell like her when I go home to him. Black Roses. But the look in his eyes when he smells her on me… I wish I were blind.

The eyes are the windows to the soul. And his, now, are empty.

When I go to her, her face is a picture of delight and happiness. My dark princess loves it when I come to her. She is my Sire, and that bond can never be broken. By coming to her, she knows that she still has that hold over me. I don’t think she really wants me. It’s just because I’m with someone else, that she wants me to be with her.

When I come home to him, his face is cheerful, but his eyes…dead. Dull, cold eyes. But he kisses me, and I moan. I want him to know that he still does it for me, even though I’m going to her.

So why do I tell myself he doesn’t care? Just because he hasn’t said anything? I can see it in everything he does. When I go to rid myself of her scent, his shoulders sag, because he knows what I’m doing.

The worst, though, is after he and I make love. I shower again.

Part of it is that I just want to make sure I don’t smell like him when I go to her. It will only give her more power over me. Make her more smug. But that’s not the only reason. When I make love to him, I feel dirty afterward, because of the look on his face.

He always looks as if every touch, every kiss, every thrust kills him. As if he thinks every time I’m touching him, kissing him, thrusting into him, that I’m not thinking of him. He thinks I’m thinking of her.

The truth is, I’m thinking of him when I’m with her. Because it’s him I love. But it’s her that I’m bound to.

And every time I look at him, I wish I hadn’t.

I never want to see that look on his face again. I don’t want to see his dead eyes, his false smiles. But how can I leave, when all I want is to be with him?

Why can’t I stop going to her? She is my Sire. She made me what I am today. If it weren’t for her, I would never have met him, because I would be dead by now.

His eyes have always told me what he was thinking. Now, all I see is pain.

I used to look at him and see shining brown eyes. Pure joy, lust, love. Everything around us would disappear into nothing every time I looked at him. There was only him. I used to love to look at him.

Now, his eyes are just broken.

Now, I never want to look at him again.

The eyes are the windows to the soul. And I’ve broken his. Broken him.

Part Three ~ Touch ~ Heat

Soft touches and familiar caresses. Skin on skin, wet with perspiration, flushed with blood flow. Adrenaline pumping with the motion of hips, hands, mouths.

I pour everything I have into making love to him. It’s the only way I can think of to keep his mind on mine. He’s clean, and for a moment, I can forget that he smelled like roses when he came in tonight, and I can forget the way he avoids my eyes when he comes from the shower. I can ignore what my mind is telling me, and just listen to my heart.

Because my heart loves him. I can feel his cool, flawless skin under my hands as I touch every inch of him. I can give him my heat; warm him from the outside in, while my body overheats. I can feel his hands trace my body with expertise. I can feel the rumbling in his throat as he groans when I lick his neck and touch his hard cock.

I can pretend that I’m not wondering how she touches him. I can fake ignorance and just be with him.

I can touch him the way I want to. As if this could be the last time.

Because it could be.

When he touches me here, in our bed, I can pretend I’m the only one he’s been touching. I can pretend that everything’s all right, because the feel of his skin against mine, rubbing, caressing, every nerve ending sizzles, and here everything is good.

I never want to stop touching him, because here is the only place I can forget about her.

Here, there is only Spike.

When his mouth is on me, when his fingers or his cock are in me, I know he’s with me. I can feel him, every skin cell, dead as it may be, imprints itself on my flesh.

And when I enter him, I know there is only me. She can’t take him like this. This is for me alone. Lately, I insist on being the one to fuck him most of the time.

Because if he’s fucking me, then maybe he’s thinking of what her skin feels like.

I’m warm, with blood and life. She is cool, no warmer than he is, death and demons. Is that why he keeps coming back?

I know he likes to be warm. He made me install a fireplace, despite the dangers of vampires and open flames. He likes to curl up next to the heat, and feel it seep into his bones.

Is that what I do for him? Is that all I am? A human water bottle? Wet heat for him to soak in, so that he’s not so cold, like her?

Flesh smacks flesh in our bed, tongues and teeth and lips collide, every touch sends shivers up my spine and lightning to my groin. Here, I can pretend that it’s only me he loves.

Here, he’s touching me.

Part Four ~ Taste ~ Bitter

She tastes the same, even after all the time we’ve spent apart. Bittersweet, but it’s home. The taste of her mouth is sweet with blood, bitter like roses, and the taste I’ve loved for a century.

So why does it turn my stomach?

Why do I wish she tasted like chocolate, heat, sage? Why do I wish the tongue delving into my mouth was hot, slick, and flat, rather than cool, thin, and moist?

Her skin tastes the same as her mouth. Bitter like roses. So why am I wishing for salt and sawdust on her skin? The salt of a day of hard labor.

When I’m with her, I taste blood and roses.

When I go home, I taste salt and sawdust.

All my life, I’ve loved the taste of rose petals on skin. Now, it makes me nauseous.

When I go home, the taste in my mouth is no longer bittersweet. It’s just bitter. Like bile. I can taste guilt, and sadness. It tastes wrong.

He tastes like summer. But I can’t get roses out of my head. When I’m with him, I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve tasted only hours before. And wishing I hadn’t tasted it.

Now he tastes of sadness, defeat. I know he knows. I wish I could tell him why I go. And why I come home.

Instead, I pour myself into him, taste every inch. Getting her taste out of my mouth so that I can taste only him.

How can I make him understand that it’s not him? He’s not the reason I go to her. But he’s the reason I come home again.

“Why?” he asks me this time, when I come home from her. His eyes are dead, and he smells of pain and whiskey. I can taste it in the air.

I just look at him for a long moment. His heart breaks more and more with every ticking second, but I can’t answer for a long time.

“You know why,” I finally tell him. He responds by pushing me against the wall, angry.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I love you.” He’s everything to me. Why can’t he see that he’s all there is?

Maybe because I keep leaving.

“You’re killing me, Spike.” And all I can taste is the bile rising in my throat, the bitter guilt and pain as he steps away from me, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Want me to go?”

“No. I want you not to go. At all.”


“Then go. If you can’t be mine, then don’t be.”

And then I taste blood as I bite the inside of my cheek. I can taste the salt of my own tears as they slide down my cheeks, between my lips. A mirror image of his tears.

I kiss him, and I taste desperation. Pain. Both his and my own.

Mostly, I taste bitter loss.

Author's Note:
I was talking to my friend Craig today, and I said "Everyone deserves British cock" (I was, of course, referring to Wesley, and some Spike and Giles.) He said, "Not Wesley. He deserves MY cock." and *I* said "But I deserve his!" And Craig said, "No, you deserve the Master's cock for putting Spike and Xander through hell!"

I was disgruntled.

Anyway, my point is, YES, they are in hell, and I put them there. But honestly, all I ever write is angst fic! ESPECIALLY when I'm feeling a little down! And then it just continues. There's one more part after this, which is as yet unwritten. Basically, I don't know what's going to happen. They might be happy, they might be sad. Hell, if I wanted, I could kill them all and turn it into a Balthazar/Jinx-the-minion fic. Why? Because I'm the damned author. BWAHAHAHAHA!!


Sorry. Power trips are a bitch.

Part Five ~ Hearing ~ Whispers

“Don’t leave me,” I gasp out, my voice hardly more than a hush. I tried to be strong, to let him go to her, but I can’t lose him. I only just found him, it seems. I want more time.

“I love you,” Spike whispers in my ear, suddenly crushing me to his chest in a fierce embrace. “I love you more than anything. More than her.”

“Then why do you go?” My voice breaks, and I can’t raise it to normal levels, but he’s a vampire, so he can hear me anyway.

“I don’t know how to make you understand. I can’t refuse her, love. She does it to hurt me.”

“Does what to hurt you?”

“Makes me come to her. Because she knows I just want to be with you. And how much it kills me to be with her.”

“Let’s go away,” I whisper, searching his tearful blue eyes. I sniffle loudly, the sound breaking the near-silence in the room with deafening noise.

“She’ll find us.”

“I can’t…”

“I love you.”

“I won’t let you go again,” I whisper into his neck. My lips graze his skin.

“I don’t know if I can stop,” he whispers back into my hair.

“Then I’ll make her stop,” I reply.

Suddenly the door is kicked in.

“Naughty whispers in the wind,” says a lilting voice from the doorway. She can’t come in.

“Not polite to listen in on other people’s conversations,” I say, trying to sound brave. She can’t come in.

She turns to Spike.

“My boy doesn’t want to play with Mummy anymore?” she asks him, sadness in her voice.

“Dru…” he whispers, trying to take a step towards her. My body tenses, and he looks at me, torn.

“I love you,” I whisper, too low for anyone but Spike to hear, if only because he’s closer to me than she is.

“Dru… pet, you have to go,” he whispers weakly, turning away from her, head down. I touch his hand lightly, letting him know with a whisper of a touch that I’m here, to help him be strong.

“Little boys go away forever, Spike,” she growls at him.

“But only once,” he whispers, looking straight into my eyes. My throat tightens, and I offer him a tremulous smile.

I know she’s glaring at us, but eventually, she leaves, while Spike and I continue to stare at each other.

“Love you,” I whisper.

“I love you so much,” he replies, his voice breaking, and we embrace roughly, our mouths meeting with a passion built from fear and relief.

Author's Note:
See? Happy ending. So quit bitchin. *g*

The End

Feed the Author

The Author's website

The Spander Files