Boglescatverse

by
Witling

Part Twenty-Two

So now he was a necrophiliac. It wasn't such a bad feeling, or at least not yet. Once his brain re-established contact with the pit of his stomach, he thought it might badden up a little, but right now, just about the only things on his mind were Navajo White and Jesus fuck. Which was pretty much what he'd thought after having sex with a live guy, too, so hey. Consistency.

Spike was inanimate beside him, sprawled out four-corners with his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. Snoring. The air conditioner hummed contentedly. The clock read 1:45.

I am an idiot, Xander thought. A tacky, dehydrated, slightly sweaty idiot. Who had to pee. He gave Spike another quick glance, then swung his legs sideways out of bed and stood up. There were clothes all over the floor—his and Spike's, tangled up together. Very metaphorical, yeah. He stepped over them and gimped quietly out and down the hall to the bathroom.

He looked puffy and chewed-over, pink and sleepy and too fuckdumb to be conflicted. So be it. He wavered a little on his heels as he peed, blinking sleepily, his whole brain scrubbed down and stuccoed over that nice, bland shade of Navajo White. Which, the hell? Navajo? But that would require thought, and he was too tired for that kind of thing. He just wanted a quick shower and a long sleep, and possibly maybe at a much later date, more sex with the dead guy in his bed. Or else a cheese knish.

He started the water and stood dopily waiting for it to warm up, running a hand over his belly. Spike had strong hands. Soft lips. No nipple rings. He wasn't even circumcised, which made sense when you thought about it, but Spike's dick was something Xander had made it an unofficial policy not to think about for, well, ever. Spike was evil; therefore, Spike's dick was evil. And evil dicks were the last thing he needed taking up mental airtime.

The thing was, there was evil and then there was evil.

He got into the shower, closed his eyes, and let lukewarm water pummel his head, hoping vaguely to fall asleep like that, propped up against the shower wall like an umbrella in a stand. Instead, he saw Spike—Jesus Christ, Spike, he was insane—splayed wide open on the wrinkled sheets, back shaking, forehead digging into the mattress. Fists against the wall. Saying…things. Sweet, dirty things that made sex with Seth seem like a wholesome enterprise, like a round of horseshoes or a couple of games of penny poker. Things that made Xander's cock sit up and take notice even now, at two a.m., with self-accusation and sleeplessness hanging out just on the other side of the shower curtain. Jesus Christ. He'd fucked Spike. He was insane.

The bathroom door opened and he jumped, guilty and panicked and water-blind for a second. What the hell—? Oh, right. Sex meant never having to knock before you walked into the bathroom.

He expected Spike to twitch back the shower curtain, or at least say something, but nothing happened. After a second or two he marshalled his resources, wiped his face, and pulled the curtain open enough to look out. Spike was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Naked, and for some reason that felt like an affront. Like evidence being thrust in his face: you fucked me, you moron, from now on it's starkers 24/7.

Then he looked at Spike's face, and saw the tired flat eyes, the lips pressed tight. Spike looked…pissed off. His hair was standing up insanely, and his arms were crossed over his chest. He didn't look like a guy who'd just been treated to an evening of great sex. More like a guy who'd just been billed for it. Xander's belly clenched. Orkney Islander, his brain whispered.

"Hi," he said, and then just stood there, clutching the shower curtain like a final vestige of sanity. Another thought occurred to him—Spike was sick. Jesus, he was a bastard. He'd fucked a sick guy. A guy who'd been epileptic last week, who could barely sit up some mornings. He swallowed hard.

"Hi," Spike said tonelessly. His eyes were steely on Xander, on the shower head behind him. They stood there a few seconds, staring at each other.

"I couldn't sleep," Xander said finally, to fill the silence, and Spike seemed almost to flinch.

"Right. Getting cleaned up, I see." He pushed off the frame and reached for the doorknob. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

"Wait—" Spike paused without looking at him, thumb tapping the knob. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." A bitter little smile, down at the linoleum. "You're a stevedore. Hardly know what hit me." He started to pull the door closed again, then stopped. "Speaking of, that was a one-time only show, all right? Momentary lapse of reason and all that."

Xander stood in silence, fingers pinching the shower curtain. He was such an idiot. Everything good—sleepiness, warmth, the back of Spike's neck—was collapsing quietly down into a chilly paste in the pit of his stomach. He should save face, right now, say something fast before it was too obvious he'd been caught off guard.

"I thought—" he said, and then stopped, because that was not how you saved face. It hung there in the air while he tried desperately to think of something to add that would make it sound less pathetic. Spike was standing still, staring at the floor, just waiting. Some part of Xander's brain was actually annoyed with that—it was the perfect opening for a jab, so why the hell wasn't Spike taking it? At least to fill the silence.

"If you want," he said lamely at last, and that wasn't exactly gaining the upper hand, but at least it was a complete sentence. His face was burning. Spike's jaw tightened.

"Way of the world," he said, swinging the door back and forth very slightly. "Both grown-ups."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay then." He looked up, hard eyes giving Xander a once-over. "Missed a spot." He nodded vaguely at Xander's midriff, then turned to leave.

"Spike." The water was pissing him off suddenly, distracting him, so he turned and knocked it off with the heel of his hand. Spike was standing in the doorway, watching him skeptically. "Are you…are you sure you're okay?"

"Fine."

"Because you're acting kind of…" He couldn't think what to say. Well, he could. Schizoid, freaky, bizarro, batshit insane. He was pretty sure those wouldn't produce a good response. "I mean, you've been sick, and…maybe that wasn't such a good idea."

Spike smiled again, and Xander's belly dropped another couple of floors. "Right, like I said. Over and forgotten. 'night."

"Spike—"

"You keep saying that." Spike studied the doorknob, turned it left and right, then looked at Xander. "'s getting boring."

"I just don't get—"

"Look, if I didn't have a fucking chip in my head I'd have eaten you ages ago. And if I didn't have this fucking flu, I'd be home in my crypt watching footie." The doorknob cracked in its socket, and he let go of it irritably. "And you'd be shagging Master Elbowpatches and the world would go round as ordained. End of story."

"Yeah, but you're not." He wasn't keeping up grammatically, but whatever. "And wait, that's your logic? Because that's crazy troll logic."

"No, it's how the world works, Harris. Take your shower."

"I wouldn't be shagg—having sex with Seth, either. I respectfully declined, remember?"

"Fine, you'd be wanking in your shower, having nasty thoughts about nasty sex with Spike—"

"Whoah, hang on—"

"So get back on that and I'll go find some footie on the telly."

Xander held his hands up, T-formation. "Okay," he said. "Hang on. I don't know a hell of a lot about this whole big gay thing, but I did date Anya. You're officially acting crazy."

"Fuck you, Harris."

"No, thanks. What's your problem, exactly?"

Spike sneered and walked out. Xander stood for a second, then thought, Fuck it, stepped out of the shower, and limped dripping down the hall after Spike. "It's two in the morning, Spike, and I'm gimpy. Spill."

Spike turned and went into the bedroom without a word. By the time Xander got there, he was sorting his jeans from Xander's, shaking them out, and starting to step into them. His standing leg buckled and he almost fell over, had to put his raised foot down in a hurry, and stood there shaking, holding the waist of his jeans in white fists.

"I saw this once on The Odd Couple," Xander said, leaning against the doorframe. "That one where they have sex and Oscar turns into a total bitch, but he can't get his pants on to leave because he's enfeebled by a mystery ailment?"

"Fuck you."

"Unlikely." He stood watching for a few seconds while Spike tried to work up the balance to get a foot off the floor, then stepped forward and crouched down. "Spike." Nothing. "Come on, I'm too tired for this."

"Fucking hell." Spike sounded tired too, and after a few more seconds' struggle, he gave up and sat down hard on the floor. "Christ." He frowned and rubbed his tailbone reflectively. "Ow."

"Yeah." Xander put his hand lightly on Spike's arm, expecting Spike to jerk away. But Spike didn't even seem to notice; he was staring at the wall behind Xander's shoulder, lost in thought. Crazy vampire. Sick, tired, bitchy, crazy vampire. "Are you…mad? At me?"

Spike gave him a surprised, distracted glance. "What, are we dating now?" His tone was a little less acid. Xander took his hand back.

"We're having sex and fighting. What else is there?" Spike grimaced, and Xander stood up. "Come on." He hauled Spike upright and pushed him back onto the bed, then toppled over beside him. "You can be an inexplicable pain in the ass tomorrow. Around ten."

Spike said nothing, and Xander reached over without looking or thinking, and patted him on the shoulder. He was lying on a wet spot. He didn't really care. If he lay here for thirty seconds without thinking, he was pretty sure he'd be asleep. And yeah, that turned out to be about right.

Part Twenty-Three

The phone rang and he woke up with it already in his hand, en route to his ear. What time was it? What day was it? Why couldn't he feel his right hand? Because it was under Spike. Okay.

"Hello?" He was expecting Giles or Willow—instead, there was silence. He lay there prying his eyes open, feeling Spike wake up beside him, slow little flexions. They'd been spooning, kind of. Xander in back, his right arm under Spike's waist. The clock said 8:30.

"Hello?" Nothing on the other end, and he started to roll over to hang up, and then heard the breathing. Oh, right. "Hang on a minute." He held the phone over Spike's shoulder. "It's for you."

Spike lay still, his face rammed into the pillow. Xander waggled the phone. Without looking up, Spike raised a shaky hand and took it. He put it to his ear. "Yeah?"

Something on the other end that didn't quite sound like English, or possibly even like a throat. Xander pulled his dead arm out from under Spike and stared at the ceiling for a second or two, then got up and walked out. Let Spike plan his party in peace. Somehow, now that he'd actually had sex with a dead guy, possible apocalypse felt like a minor concern.

He wandered into the living room, limping and shaking out his arm, wondering if there were any waffles left. In the bedroom, Spike hung up with a bang. Apparently the end of the world was a bitch to organize. And hey, waffles.

He stood yawning, watching the toaster coils turn red and the cup go around in the microwave. It probably said something about him that he could watch blood heat up in his Allied Drywall mug without giving a damn. His arm was coming back to life, thank God. He'd lost the bandage over the cacodemon puncture at some point, and he spent a minute or two studying the neat red hole, trying to decide whether it was better or worse than the time Vincent Loudermilk stabbed him with a No. 2 pencil in third grade. Probably better.

Still no syrup, so he went with peanut butter and walked back to the bedroom with the mug in one hand, the waffle in the other. Spike was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Room service," Xander said, holding out the mug. "Or peace offering. Your call."

Spike lowered his chin and stared at Xander as if he were holding out a signed copy of Dyanetics. "Breakfast in bed," he said after a moment. His tone was wary, a little confused. Xander looked down at the cup in his hand.

"Well, more like a serving of nuked animal blood. Which is either breakfast or a reason to heave, depending on your point of view."

Spike stared at him a second or two longer, then sat up and reached for the cup. The sheet was pulled modestly up to his waist, but Xander could still see his belly muscles tremble with the effort of verticality. He sat down on the end of the bed and took another bite of waffle. Spike didn't drink; he just stared down into the mug, as if he'd never seen blood before.

"Don't bother," Xander said after a minute, still chewing. "I used iocane powder. It's undetectable." Spike gave him a look from under his brows, and Xander raised his waffle in salute. Another long look into the depths of the mug, and then he took a swig.

"Not bad."

"Special reserve," Xander said absently, tonguing waffle out of a molar.

"Sorry." A pause. "About last night."

Xander looked back over his shoulder. Spike was staring into his mug, lips pursed as if he were reconsidering what he'd just said. Xander shrugged. "Hey, I had a great time. Until you turned into a crazy person." Spike didn’t look up. "You want to walk me through that transformation?"

Another long pause, while Spike swirled and drank a little more blood. "Not really."

"Uh-huh. You want to tell me who's calling my place for you?"

Spike stopped swirling and sat still. Xander took another bite of waffle and watched him. His shoulders were rigid, and his belly was trembling harder. His fingers were white on the cup. After a second, Xander leaned back on an elbow and took it gently out of his hand. "You break that, I'm going to need all new sheets." His elbow was on a dried patch of something, and he shifted it without looking too closely. "Well, okay, I probably already do."

"I should go," Spike said, swinging his legs off the far side of the mattress and bracing his weight on his palms to stand. Xander didn't move. "Going now."

"Okay." He still didn't move, and Spike pushed with both hands, got a few inches off the mattress, and then just sort of hung there. The muscles in his back were tight and trembling. "Just out of interest, did you take your dose yesterday?"

Spike didn't say anything, but his shoulders went up another notch. Xander finished the last bite of his waffle and regarded the mug in his hand while he chewed. "I propose a compromise."

Spike kept hovering, fingers flexing by his hips, legs shaking harder now. Xander sat up and put the mug on the night table, next to the measuring spoons and the diminishing Ziploc of scat. "Spike, I'm proposing, here. Sit down a second."

Spike sat down with a thump, and sat still with his face turned away to the windows. Xander waited. Finally Spike said, "What, then?"

"Okay, uh, I propose that we're not dating. Since you're straight and I'm strictly speaking a food group for you. We shouldn't date. Agreed?"

Spike's shoulders lowered slightly, and after a second he nodded. "Fine. And?"

"Okay, cool. I sub-propose that you dial down the freak, since we're not dating and your street cred is therefore safe." Xander ran his hands over his face and tried to smile. "I have no plans to mention this to Buffy, just so you know."

Spike scratched the back of his neck. "'Sub-propose'?"

"Shut up. I further propose that you stop trying to crawl out of here every time you flashback. It's kind of…insulting." He had to keep careful control of his voice on that one, and he still wasn't sure he made it sound light enough. "Give it a day or two, then dump me. That's what a gentleman does."

He expected Spike to rise to that one, and even left him a little space to do it, but…nothing. Spike just sat there, his back inexpressive. Xander took a breath. "And last but not least, I propose you tell me something."

Spike turned his head so Xander could see his face in profile. Brows furrowed. Thinking face. "What?"

"Look me in the face and tell me you're not planning apocalypse on my home phone."

Spike looked surprised at that, for a second or two. Then he turned, braced a shaking hand in the sheets, and looked Xander in the face. "'m not planning apocalypse on your home phone."

"And by 'apocalypse,' I mean anything really bad. Like, say, hurting Buffy or Willow or Giles." And yeah, this was exactly the kind of post-coital conversation you had to expect to have on the Hellmouth, but still. It was kind of a downer. He kept his eyes fixed on Spike's, wondering whether he'd know if Spike just flat out lied to him. Unlikely. The only time you knew Spike wasn't lying was when he was knocked unconscious or had his mouth too full to talk.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Spike's expression wasn't as taut as it had been; he actually looked interested, in a serious kind of way. And a little baffled, or maybe just wary. "'m not planning anything. Not trying to hurt anyone." He slid his hand back along the bed, still taking his weight, until his elbow buckled and he fell onto the mattress. It didn’t seem to faze him; he just lay on his back with his arm over his head, stretching until his fingers touched Xander's elbow. "Promise."

Xander looked down at him, at the white, shaking, nail-bitten fingers on his arm, and at Spike's solemn upside-down face. Crazy vampire. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, that's it." He patted Spike's hand, sat up, and reached for the measuring spoons. "I got nothing else. Drink your scat."

Spike lay in silence while he mixed the stuff, then took the cup with a frown. "What about—?" He motioned vaguely at the bed, and Xander looked down at the creased, stained sheets.

"I'll do laundry," he said, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Those cacodemons do a serious number on the linens."

Spike stared at him, bolted his blood, and made a prolonged scat face. Xander took the mug out of his hand while he was contorting, and turned to go.

"No, you wanker, what about sex?" Spike was still gasping, wiping his eyes. Xander shrugged.

"Got me. Nothing about it in my proposals."

"'m I on the couch again, then?" He sounded a little sharp, a little pissy. Or maybe it was just the scat. Xander turned back and spread his hands wide.

"Spike. You are wherever you choose to be."

Suspicious glare. "You're not as funny as you think you are, mate."

"No, but I'm more okay with all of this than you are. So if you don't mind, I have gloating to do." He turned and went out, still naked, carrying Spike's cup. Spent the next ten minutes washing dishes, but doing it with a light heart.