Prawn!Verse

by

Wit Ling

Part Sixteen

The flat's quiet when he gets home, and when he walks past Xander's door to the bathroom he hears the same deep, unhurried breathing that he left behind ten hours ago. Kid's out like a light. He's tempted to go in anyway, just to sit and listen, maybe finish sorting those albums he doesn't give a damn about, but that's stupid. He goes down the hall and washes up.

On the way back, he opens Xander's door and goes in anyway, because he's unpredictable like that.

Xander's laid out on his side, soft face, pearled skin, fingers loose and open. The soup bowl's on the night stand. Albums all over the floor. It's a still life, the blue dawn just starting to seep in and touch things, and everything in the room is crap except Xander, who's beautiful. For the first time in a long time, Spike doesn't mind being immortal.

He undoes his jeans for comfort's sake, pulls the curtains tighter, and gets in at the bottom of the bed, between Xander and the wall. The cot protests, and Xander gives a low, querying sigh. Spike shuffles over, gets an arm around his waist. Warm.

"Go back to sleep," he says quietly, and kisses the back of Xander's neck. Smells like clean laundry, vanished sweat. Xander hovers a minute, his body trying to work up the energy for tension, and then just slips right back down the slope. Warm and loose and pliant. Spike shoves a little closer, buries his head between Xander's shoulder blades, and drifts.

He dreams Xander's kissing him, mouth and neck and chest and so on down, until finally his tongue is on Spike's cock, lips around the head, and it's fucking amazing, better than the first night even and all because he can still feel Xander's mouth on his. Because Xander kissed him. He's grinning like an idiot, reaching down to touch Xander's head, saying stupid things out loud. He's happy. He's going to come.

He wakes up and realizes he has no imagination, because Xander's mouth is on his cock and his own hand is already down there, fingers in the kid's hair. Hot and sweat-damp, right on the edge. Xander's holding his hip with one hand, got the other one under him, expert touches. His shoulders are shaking a little. Shouldn't let this go, it's a bad idea, wasn't why he came in here in the first place.

He comes hard, messy, his hips snapping up savagely. His hands yanking at Xander's head. Trying to get deeper, trying to get inside.

When Spike's done, Xander wipes his face and then just rolls sideways and collapses down at hip level. He's sweaty and hot, breathing hard, eyes closed. Face unreadable. Spike lies still, studying him. Trying to tell how much he dreamed, how much was real.

"Feeling better," he says. Xander makes a mm sound without opening his eyes. Spike puts a hand down and runs it through Xander's hair, close to his scalp. Wet, silky. "Did you—?" He feels like an idiot, having to ask. If Xander says no, what then? More embarrassment.

Xander doesn't follow it up, thank God. His lips part and he sinks away into sleep without saying a thing.

When Spike wakes up next he's alone again. The shower's running, the soup bowl's gone. He sits up slowly, rubs a hand over his head, then thinks to do up his jeans. Xander's clothes are all shoved to one corner of the room, and his backpack's been put away somewhere.

In the kitchen, Spike balances on two bare feet and drinks a long, warm mug of blood. It's five thirty in the afternoon, be time to go back to work again in a few hours. He feels loose and light and better than he has in ages.

The shower shuts off while he's staring at cans of soup in the cupboard. He can hear Xander messing around in there, towelling off and shaving and whatever the hell else, making the little necessary sounds he's made for months without Spike noticing. He doesn't even really notice now. He just hears them somewhere in the back of his mind while he takes a can of bouillon down and empties it into a saucepan, puts the heat on, and walks away to find the newspaper. They're good sounds, after two days of deadly silence. If he wanted to live in a crypt he would. Still.

He reads headlines, thinks about Bitte's Piaf, considers a cigarette but doesn't light one, and when he hears Xander go back down the hall to the bedroom, gets up and pours some of the bouillon into a mug. Leaves it on the counter for him and goes back to the newspaper.

Xander comes in after a couple more minutes, wet-headed and smelling of soap. He looks thinner than ever, as if two days in the world and one in bed have pulled ten pounds off him. Maybe they have. His jeans are loose and low. He goes to the fridge without saying anything, opens it, and stands spectating.

"Soup right there," Spike says, looking back down at the paper. He feels weirdly jumpy all of a sudden. Nervous, even. He needs to find his cigarettes.

Xander looks around at him blankly, one hand still propped on the refrigerator door, as if Spike's just asked him if he has the society section.

"Soup," Spike says, concentrating on the newspaper. "On the counter."

Xander twists his head around further and looks at the mug behind him. There's a brief silence, and then he closes the refrigerator, steps back, and stares into the mug. Spike lifts his head and watches. Xander studies the soup for a couple of seconds, then picks it up and carries it over to the kitchen table. Sets it down in front of Spike and starts to walk back to the fridge.

"'s not bloody well for me," Spike snaps. "It's for you. Nitwit."

Xander pauses, turns back, and studies him. His eyes are black and cool, but there's a slight amused curl at the corner of his lip.

"Thanks," he says, sounding just a bit surprised.

"Yeah, you're welcome. Smells fucking disgusting." He prods it away with one finger, and Xander picks it up and carries it back to study the refrigerator some more. For a few minutes Spike tries to read an article about an exploded sperm whale.

"How you feeling?" he asks finally, rattling pages.

"All right."

Silence. Xander takes a container of yogurt out of the fridge and turns it slowly in one hand, trying to find a date on it. Spike watches out of the corner of one eye.

"Still got a fever?"

"Nah."

What did you do in Sunnydale, exactly? He doesn’t ask that; he pats his pockets and remembers he left his cigarettes in his locker at work. Fuck.

"Touch and go there for a while. Had to call Bitte over."

"Bitte?" For a second Xander looks confused; then his face clears. "Bitte was here?"

"Last night. Sadistic little bint, made you drink bull piss."

"Bull—?" Xander's face is troubled, uncertain.

"Got you back on your feet, didn't it?"

Xander puts the yogurt carefully back into the fridge and closes the door. "I guess," he says faintly, setting his mug down.

"She also slapped a cold towel on you. Tried to talk her out of it, but—"

Xander's looking at him oddly. "That was you."

"Right, well, it was her idea."

"I remember that. It hurt."

"Well." For some reason Spike can't think of anything to say to that. It's something about Xander's tone, which is matter-of-fact, no grudge in it at all. His expression is distracted, as though he's trying to remember what else might have gone on. "Wasn't really bull piss," Spike mutters after a minute, rubbing his thumb.

"Good." Xander turns away again, goes over to the couch, and picks up the remote. Spike watches him flick on the television, mute it, and sink down onto the carpet to flick through channels.

"How come you don't ever sit on the couch like a normal person?"

Xander shrugs and says nothing, flicking. It's as though he hasn't really heard what Spike's said, or has just heard enough to know he doesn't really need to pay attention or answer. Spike frowns.

"You coming to work tonight?"

Xander nods. Again, not really making it past the anvil and stirrup. Spike licks a spot of blood absently off one knuckle.

"Come here," he says after a second. Perverse, but he can't help it.

Xander looks over, a little surprised for a tick, then not surprised at all. He kills the television, stands up, and walks over. Drops to his knees on the linoleum in front of Spike without waiting to be asked.

"Look—" Spike says, already bracing himself. We need to have a talk about some things. When you were sick… Or maybe When you were gone… He's not sure. He doesn't have a chance to think about it, because Xander's leaning forward, running his hands up Spike's thighs to his crotch, popping the button on his fly. His eyes are black and flat, his mouth wet already.

Spike jerks back and grabs Xander's wrists. "Wait, hang on. Not doing this right now."

Xander goes still and looks at him. "What are we doing, then?"

"Just talking. We need to talk. And don't bloody bite me for saying it this time, either—"

Xander leans back on his heels, and Spike lets go of his wrists. "We don't talk," Xander says flatly.

"Right, no, that's the point. Maybe we should."

"Spike." Xander leans forward, as if he's going to impart a secret, but he's just getting up off the floor. When he's standing, looking down, he still looks small somehow. Small and bored and hollow. "I pay rent here. That's all I do."

"So pay it by talking."

"Fuck off."

"Well, that's a start at least. Just—" He lapses, can't think what to say next. "Look, just sit down and have a bloody conversation, is that so hard?"

Xander's face hasn't changed. "I pay rent," he says again. "You can take that out of me any way you want, it doesn't matter. But I don't have to have a conversation about it."

Spike sits silently, folding and unfolding one corner of the paper between his fingers. On the far side of the room, the stove clock ticks over to six fifteen.

"You shouldn't go in to work tonight," he says finally, staring at the picture of the dead whale on the pavement. "Take another night, get some sleep."

Xander turns away and goes back to the floor and the silent television. Spike stares at whale guts. Stupid.

Part Seventeen

They go to work. Half an hour before opening, Spike's getting his float from the bartender and Xander's at the far end of the bar, unloading glasses. Texas appears. God knows how he does it, must have trapdoors everywhere. Spike doesn't look up, just keeps counting fives and tens and twenties, and Texas pauses in front of him for just a second, as if giving him a chance to say something if he wants to. He doesn't. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Texas walks down to Xander's end of the bar.

"You were sick." It's just an observation, but Texas has a way of making observations sound a lot like threats. Xander's hands falter, hesitate, then keep racking glasses.

"I'm better."

A pause, while Texas studies the top of Xander's head. Spike loses count of his tens and has to start over, frowning.

"You get sick a lot?"

"No."

Another pause, and then Texas reaches down with one hand, size of a catcher's mitt, and Xander flinches. Spike looks up sharply, fuck the tens, but Texas is just pushing Xander's face to one side. Looking at his neck. Both sides. Spike stands frozen, his hands numb, his head throbbing, breathing like an idiot. Xander keeps his eyes down and waits it out. After a few seconds, Texas looks back over his shoulder, directly at Spike.

"Okay," he says, letting go of Xander's chin. "Don't cough in anyone's drink."

Xander goes straight back to the glasses, and Texas slopes off to his office, closing the door behind him. Spike stands there with his hands full of bills, staring at nothing, shaking slightly. Not even sure what's pissing him off so badly, because it's not like he's really above it.

"You can't blame him," Bitte says in his ear, pulling a tray from the holder beside him. "The last thing he needs is a dead human on his hands."

From there, the night pretty much goes downhill. It's not even midnight when the little brown-haired bint shows up, glaring and flashing a hundred dollar bill like she's got more where that came from. Wearing some kind of cheap silvery top, might be sexy on a woman who weighed more than eighty pounds and didn't look like she wanted to kill him.

"Keep it," he says, when she pushes the bill at him. She opens her mouth to start in and he holds up his hand, unchains the door, and pushes it open for her.

She just stands there staring, her mouth hanging open, like he's told her she's the lucky millionth customer and would she like the cash prize or the holiday. Then she looks past him through the door, into the black pulse of noise, and her face falls slightly. She's ridiculously young, he realizes. Probably younger than Xander and Buffy, that whole lot. She looks a little awestruck, more than a little scared.

"Go on," he says, making a hurry up gesture with his free hand. She looks back at him, and her eyes narrow slightly. Suspicious. Good.

"You're letting me in."

"Trying to, yeah. Want to move it along, love?"

"Why?"

"Well, the door's heavy, for one thing—"

"No, why are you letting me in?"

"Because you're a bloody pest."

"Oh." She studies the door again, then firms her lips, tucks the hundred firmly back into her sluttish little purse, and steps forward. He waits till she's on the threshold, then catches her arm, leans in with her, and puts his mouth to her ear. She's edgy, startled. Probably a second away from macing him.

"Don't talk to anyone else," he says, loud enough that she can hear it over the music. "Understand?" She hesitates, then nods. "Don't cruise in here, love. Say hello and off you go. Right?" She hesitates a second longer, then nods again. "Right, have fun."

He lets go, lets her spin off his hand into the crowd like a fish released into moving water, and steps back outside. It's cold and quiet and bright on the step, after even just a few seconds in the bar. Christ, Xander spends all night in that din. God knows if she'll even be able to find him, or if they'll even be able to hear each other if she does.

"No fucking way," he tells the gargoyle hovering hopefully on the bottom step. "Now piss off before I come down there and break your stony fucking neck myself."

They close at four, and by four thirty he's cashed out, drunk a quick hard shot with Vincent, and heading for the break room for his things. Hasn't seen Xander all night, not that that's unusual. Didn't see the girl leave, but most people leave by the back door, so that's normal too. Still, there's a part of him that's thinking he's going to go in there and see Xander's locker cleared, find out nobody's seen him since midnight. Stupid to let her in in the first place.

He's actually surprised when he opens the break room door and Xander's in there. Sitting slumped on the bench with his coat on, hands hanging down between his knees, while Bitte rubs the back of her neck with a towel and talks to him about pastries.

"Strudel," she says, glancing up as Spike comes in. "I miss that, nobody can make a proper strudel here. And kuchen, apple kuchen."

"America is a land of donuts," Xander says wearily, not looking up. "Donuts and donut holes, that's about it." He pauses. "Well, fritters."

Bitte makes a face and throws her towel in her locker. "Proper food. You need more soup, Piaf. Heart makes you strong, nettle makes you piss."

"Plus, they taste memorable."

"Tell Spike you need more soup."

Xander raises his head and looks at Spike. His eyes are glassy and shot with red. "Bitte says—"

"I heard." Spike goes to his locker, opens it with a bang, and yanks out his coat. For some reason he's annoyed, even though just a minute ago he was afraid Xander had left, afraid he'd done something stupid enough to let him leave. Bitte makes a chiding sound behind her teeth, and pulls her own jacket on.

"Soup," she says, giving Spike a knowing glance. "And sleep. He needs both."

"Jawohl," he mutters into his locker. She goes out and lets the door bang behind her.

"Right," Spike says, turning around with the keys in his fist, half his brain still fixed on the girl, whether she found Xander and what she said if she did, whether she made it out after. Not that he cares. "You all set to—"

Xander doesn't stand up, but he reaches one hand out and catches hold of Spike's belt, right above his fly. Spike stands still, a little startled, looking down at Xander's fingers against his belly. "What are you—"

Xander pulls, and when Spike doesn't step forward, he slides neatly off the bench onto his knees between Spike's legs. Leans forward, presses his mouth to Spike's crotch, and breathes out warmth. Eyes closed, palms running up the inside of Spike's thighs. So apparently she found him after all.

"Jesus Christ," Spike says, getting a hand on Xander's shoulder and shoving him back. Firmly, but not sharply. Xander's eyes spring open, and his gaze hooks on Spike's face. Glazed, black, pupils full as moons. Lips apart. He'd be fine to do it right here, on the floor of the locker room. Jesus Christ.

"Not here," Spike says quietly, his hand still on Xander's shoulder. He doesn't want to let go for some reason, and not just because of the sex. There's something else there between them, some little spark, there has to be. He did something right, found something Xander wanted. That has to be a good thing.

"Where?" Xander asks, not missing a beat. Jesus Christ.

"Come on," he says, pulling Xander to his feet and pushing him out the door with a hand on his elbow. The car's parked in the alley, it's still dark out there. God knows they've both had worse.

Part Eighteen

The little brown-haired tart keeps coming back, two or three nights a week, you'd think she didn't have a job to go to. And for some reason he keeps letting her in. He's got no idea why except that somewhere behind him, in the dark booming bar, it makes Xander happy. Stupid; he should have found something Xander liked that wasn't warm and female and liable to suggest one-way trips to somewhere else. But for the moment it's the best he's got, so when she shows up he doesn't say anything, doesn't even look her in the eye properly, just unchains the door and holds it open without a word. She slips in fast, before he can change his mind. Not stupid.

He starts taking his breaks in the bar, holding up the walls, instead of in the alley or the breakroom, where it's quieter. He smokes a cigarette and drinks some blood and keeps an eye on Xander. Who is never talking to the tart, strangely enough. He just works, head down and crate on his hip, hoovering glasses off tables and the bar till he's got a full load, then hoisting the whole thing up over his head and back through the swing doors to the swamp. He's getting big hands, cords in his forearms. Must have tired the hell out of him, the first couple of days back after he was sick. The brown-haired tart makes a Coke last an hour at a little table against the wall. When Xander passes they smile at each other. When she stands up to leave, he cuts across the room to balance the crate on her little table and hug her. It's too loud to talk; at most, she yells something into his ear, and he nods, and that's it. She's out the back door with her purse clamped under her elbow, and he's collecting her glass.

The first time Xander noticed Spike propped against his wall, he looked startled, almost afraid. Now he just passes by with a quick sideways look, the usual look, the one that means he's just using the basic radar to see if Spike wants anything from him. Spike tries to look like he always takes his breaks in the bar, like he's enjoying the music. The bloody awful fucking music.

He needs a new job.

He's considering that over a blood and tan one tartless Thursday night, wondering if Bitte's right, if the circus is really the next step and if the poof's detective agency counts as centre ring, and if he can possibly walk the high wire for that bastard again. Everything in him recoils at the thought, but he can't carry on here, it's ridiculous. He's a bouncer, for God's sake. And Xander can't keep working at a bloody demon bar. The poof could give him something useful to do, something with some dignity and maybe benefits. Office work, maybe. Or building things—didn't he build things, back in Sunnydale?

He lifts his head to drink and sees Xander and someone else on the far side of the bar, heads bent together over something in their hands. Not the tart--she's not here tonight. They're half-hidden behind the wall, and it takes a second for his eyes to understand that it's one of the other bussers. Feeding Xander a bump off the end of a matchstick.

He drops his glass onto the table beside him and shoves through the crowd. For once he can't hear the music at all, can't hear anything. By the time he gets over to them the match is gone, the little packet's disappeared. Xander's leaning back on his heels, scrubbing his nose and mouth with his palm, reaching clumsily for his crate with his free hand. He doesn't see Spike until too late, until Spike's put a hand on his arm and stopped him from going anywhere. Then his heart goes through the roof.

The other kid's new, just some random dipshit with big blue eyes and pinpoint pupils and a high-pitched giggle that he turns on Spike like it's all a joke. Not bright. Not reliable. Not getting it.

Xander's got it right away, even though he's riding the rocket straight up. He hooks his hand through the crate of glasses he was supposed to be carrying, then just stands there staring at the floor with big blotto eyes and his heart going racehorses. Waiting. Spike glances at him, then turns a tight smile on the other idiot.

"What's all this, then?" He has to say it loud so they can hear him, but he keeps it civil. The blue-eyed fuckwit grins and shrugs.

"Spike, my man. My man." He picks up his own crate and nods at Xander. "All work and no play, right?"

Spike puts his other hand out and takes hold of the idiot's bicep. Harder than he's holding onto Xander's arm; hard enough to hurt. He doesn't have the chip anymore, after all. "What's your name?"

"Spike, Ron, Spike. That hurts."

"Right. Ron, if you ever give Xander drugs again, I'll rip you into little bits and FedEx you back to Tarzana. Got it?" He squeezes harder. Really hard. Ron's eyes go wide, and he sucks in air. Going to have to carry the crate with the other arm for the rest of the night. Going to have black bruises.

"Jesus Christ, Spike—" He's nodding, tripping over his words. "Fuck, all right, I didn't know—"

"Well." Spike lets go and gives him a little pat on the shoulder. "Now you do." Ron gives him a baffled, frightened look and tries to go, but Spike grabs him by the collar and yanks him back. "What was that, anyway?"

"Just meth, it's cool—"

"Fuck off now, Ron." He lets go and Ron disappears into the crowd. Which leaves him with his hand still around Xander's arm, and Xander still attached, still staring down at the dirty glasses in his crate. Swallowing hard, blinking fast, but not trying to go anywhere. "You idiot."

Xander doesn't say anything, and Spike gets a hand under his chin and tips his face up. His eyes are bright, shiny, hyper-alert, the pupils shrunk to pencil dots. His heart's thundering. He smells scared and sweaty, and standing that close to him, Spike feels his fangs start to lower. He pushes Xander back a step and wipes his mouth. "Get back to fucking work, will you?"

Xander gives him a baffled look, hefts the crate, and starts to turn away. Then he turns slowly back. Frowning, repositioning. "It's not like you never—"

"Shut up," Spike snaps. "I'll deal with you later." Xander's shoulders go up, and he lowers his head, gets a surly bull terrier look, and Spike's fangs are itching, the press of blood-filled bodies all around is suddenly almost too much to stand. If Xander pushes it any farther he's going to get punched in the mouth. Or something else. And he can see that Xander's going to push it.

So he turns on his heel and walks fast back through the crowd, loses himself, and ends up in the back room with the lockers and a few quick shots of Jim Beam, onetwothree, just enough to keep him from ripping anything apart. Just enough to get him back out to the rope more or less on time, break over, time to punch back in. He doesn't see Xander again until they're closed, five and a half hours later. They get their coats out of their lockers and head to the car without a word.

"I'm sorry." Xander's slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs, legs spread wide, arms crossed sulkily over his chest. He's better at displaying himself now, Spike notices. He's more convinced he's got something to display, assets worth having. He's starting to look like a proper hustler—long-haired, spoiled, carelessly dressed. Sometimes it's incredibly fucking hot. Sometimes it makes you want to wring his neck.

"It was one hit," Xander says. "It wasn't a big deal."

"I'll tell you what's a big deal and what isn't." He's making tea at the counter by the stove, dunking the bag irritably with a teaspoon. The water isn't hot enough, and he hates using a mug. Without thinking, he says, "As long as you live here, you do what I tell you." Then he really wants to take it back, because when did he turn into Xander's bloody father?

Xander laughs, a sharp bitter little laugh, and for a second Spike can't really blame him. He's confusing himself, frankly. Why does he care if Xander does drugs? Well, it's illegal, and the last thing he needs is official scrutiny. And there's the soul. It's probably the stupid soul. He spoons the teabag out of the mug and flings it into the sink. The milk's gone bad. He misses proper tea.

"You start paying rent, you get to decide house rules," he says, dropping the spoon in after the teabag with a clatter. "Or go find somewhere else to doss. Maybe your friend Ron'll have you."

Xander takes that in, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I think," he says quietly, "that I pretty much pay my own way around here."

They stand there in silence for a few seconds, while Spike thinks seriously about throwing his mug into the wall.

Xander's mouth tightens, and he slides off the chair onto his knees on the linoleum. Seems to like that, kneeling like that—he does it enough. His eyes are black and big, emptied.

"You want an installment?" He settles back, rests his butt on his heels and his hands calmly, palm down, on his thighs. "Okay. I can do that."

"Get up."

"No, seriously. It's been, what, a couple of days? You should collect."

"Get up, you idiot."

"Come here." He just sits there staring, no emotion in his face, and after a few seconds Spike doesn’t want to be stared at anymore. He puts his mug down and walks over.

"Get up, wanker." He puts a hand out, but Xander leans around it and rests his forehead against Spike's thigh. It's surprisingly gentle. Spike stands there nonplussed, the anger shifting uncertainly and then somehow falling out of him, sand through a sieve. He reaches down and runs his fingers through Xander's hair. Nice to be able to touch him like this, without complications. Just heavy black curls falling through his knuckles, and the warmth of Xander's skin through his jeans. For a minute or two things are simple, almost good.

Then Xander's hands run slowly, lightly up Spike's legs, over his knees and up his thighs, the long muscles in front. Just his palms, just smoothing. He rolls his forehead and his cheek brushes Spike's crotch. Lightly, almost accidentally. Spike tightens the hand in Xander's hair, and opens his mouth to say That's enough. Opens his mouth but doesn't quite say it. Xander's lips brush the fly of his jeans. His fingers slide between Spike's legs, run over the trembling tendons, retreat. Spike stands still. He's hard already.

This is old, it's all familiar and depressing, how he can't help reacting even though he doesn't want it anymore. Hasn't wanted it in weeks. Or maybe he does; he can't tell, he just knows he wants something, and that this is all he gets, and that he feels like shit most of the time. And what the hell is it to Xander? His heart's sped up. When he lifts his face and shakes the hair out of his eyes, his cheeks are a little flushed. Big pupils. God, he has nice lips. And smiling a bit, like he's making all this up from scratch, just figuring it out for the first time. Pleased with himself. Pretty and smooth and hard as the tile in the underground gent's, and he didn't use to look like that at all.

Spike pets the hair gently back off Xander's forehead and wonders if he can bend down and kiss him. Wonders what would happen if he tried. He's afraid if he tries it he'll lose even this, this cagey flat promising smile up from between his legs. So he doesn't try. He stands very still and lets Xander open the button of his jeans, then pull the zipper down with slow tiny ticks. He doesn't want this. Shouldn't want it. Of course he wants it. Jesus.

He's so hard he has to close his eyes, can't watch Xander free his cock from his jeans with little nuzzles, forehead and cheek, his hands holding loosely to Spike's buttocks. Warm palms. God. In the last four months, Xander's sucked him off more times than he can count. Always good. Ever since that first night, the night on the couch, his first time—always good. He dreams about it. Takes Xander to bed with him, uses him up, crashes, and dreams incredible dreams about his cock in Xander's mouth, that sweet feeling he can't get enough of. In the best dreams, Xander doesn't just suck him off; he smiles and laughs and kisses him. Lies beside him and talks to him. He wakes up iron-hard from those, almost desperate.

He's that hard now, that close to the edge, just feeling Xander's breath on his cock, the skin of his thighs. He wants to knot a hand in Xander's hair or his shirt, actually get hold of him somehow, but if he does that it'll change. Be less gentle, less like his dreams. He keeps his hands at his sides and just takes it, lets Xander drive, lets it happen.

"We're quitting that place," he says quietly, watching Xander kiss the inside of his leg. "The bar. We're not—we're finding something else."

Xander slides his cheek along Spike's skin and gives him a considering look. "There isn't anything else," he says. "This is all there is."