AtS S5 - post-Destiny, AU
AN: A while ago Annie Sewell-Jennings posted the following request in her Livejournal:
Someone write me a lovely little drabble in which Xander comes home from work all zonked out and exhausted, his feet all achy, and Spike rubs them and says dirty things. And then they have a long bath. And some wine. And some drugs. Don't forget the drugs. Drugs good.
I couldn't fit in the drugs, and it's not dirty. But I hope it still hits the spot. Also, this is for snoopygirll
– as a belated b-day prezzie.
Many thanks to sangpassionne
for acting as my beta.
Sometimes Xander misses coming home to a tidy apartment, one that doesn't smell of cigarettes, where he doesn't trip over muddy boots, and where the fridge is stocked with fresh peppers and mushrooms, or a selection of smelly cheeses, instead of half empty Chinese take away boxes and several pickles jars full of blood. At least there's always beer, and often chocolate.
Sometimes Xander misses coming home to Anya, who always greeted him cheerfully, and started talking about her day and asking about his. Nowadays, if he's lucky, he's greeted by the sound of the TV instead of so-called music by the Dead Kennedys or the Ramones. And Spike never asks how Xander's day was. Xander doesn't know if the lack of discernable interest is a guy, a vamp, or a Spike thing. And maybe he doesn't want to.
It's been one of these days. Xander lets himself in and tosses the keys on the kitchen counter, along with a thick stack of mail: junk mail, several bills, a Domino's menu, more bills, and a postcard from Willow, bearing a Cambridge postmark.
It would be an exaggeration to say that he limps inside, but it's close. Xander's been on his feet all day, trying to be everywhere at once. And now his feet hurt like hell.
If Thoth's duplication wand hadn't gone 'kablooey' with the rest of Sunnydale, Xander'd feel sorely tempted to dig it out and just zap himself. With two Xanders to oversee the site and do the paperwork the company he's working for might actually meet the deadline and get the villa for Mr. upstart Hollywood actor built on schedule. Plus this time he wouldn't be in such a rush to get his two halves reintegrated.
"You're late, but I set the Tivo," Spike says by way of greeting. "C'mere."
With a sigh, Xander hangs up his jacket. "How was your day?" he asks, mellowed by the relief that comes from slipping out of his shoes.
"Went to see Angel about that loan and to pass the Martinez case on. Bumped into Eve. She said they could try to 'upgrade' me, like they did with Charles. Apparently they can Johnny Mnemonic all sorts of weird stuff, like cut out people's conscience, reprogram eating disorders, even swap you a fashion sense for Sam Spade 101 with SAP programming thrown in for free – whatever that is."
"And what did Eve want in return?" Xander opens the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of Budweiser, opens it and takes a hefty gulp, before making his way to the sofa.
"That's just the thing. Nothing. Called it a gesture of goodwill."
Xander has never seen Eve, but he dislikes her heartily from Spike's stories alone. Now that antipathy intensifies.
"And? Did you sign the dotted line?" Xander asks, wincing as a stab of worry joins today's aches and woes. He studies Spike's features, wondering if such a change would be noticeable.
Spike makes room on the couch and Xander sinks gratefully into the soft cushions.
"Wouldn't mind knowing a thing or two 'bout bookkeeping," Spike confesses. "But the only way I want to learn about numbers is by opening a little sachet, emptying it into a mug and pouring hot water on it. Not gonna let anyone or anything near my noggin again, that's for sure."
"Instant bookkeeping, huh? Sounds marketable," Xander says, closing his eyes. He just needs to rest his eyes for a moment. "So, what did you tell her?"
"Told her to sod off. The only update I need are a few more inches, and I'm not talking height."
Xander's relief is short lived. Inches? Huh? That gets Xander's full attention and he sits up straight. "Have you been reading porn again?" Lately, Spike has tried very hard to brush up on his rudimentary and sadly neglected computer skills to keep his case files in some semblance of order. The downside is, that Spike spends the time in between clients surfing the Net reading porn.
Spike doesn't answer.
Xander closes his eyes and leans back with a groan, but really he feels like banging his head against something solid. Just what he needs, on top of his achy feet: having to mollycoddle a morose vampire.
"You don't need more inches. Your dick's fine," he says tiredly. And it's true. Just thinking about it sends familiar tingles down his spine and makes his groin go all... groiny.
"Fine? You don't think it needs to be longer? Or thicker?"
Xander sighs, catching on. "Your dick's perfect the way it is. There, I said it. Are you satisfied now?" Xander yawns half-heartedly. Half hard too. But. God, his feet hurt and he's just too tired for Spike's unique brand of verbal foreplay.
Silence. Followed by the sound of creaking leather as Spike shifts his weight, bending forward, and then slender fingers clasp Xander's ankles, strong and cool, lifting Xander's feet up, pulling and dragging. Xander is more than happy to play crashtest dummy, lets tugs and nudges ply him until he's lying comfortably on the sofa, back propped up against the armrest, feet resting on Spike's lap. His socks are yanked off. Judging by the soft thud they land somewhere near the bathroom door. And then skilled hands start to rub and knead Xander's feet like Play-Doh. Oh yeah, this is good. Every time he feels those nimble thumbs exert pressure on his instep, Xander releases a low moan, a muffled sound of encouragement.
"Remember the Rossi case? The Italian mamma whose husband I pried off that succubus?" Spike's hands never lose their rhythm.
Talking is too much of an effort, but Xander manages an affirmative sound.
"She called. Said the check's in the mail. And we should stop by the restaurant some time. She'll cook for us."
Food is always good. Italian food is even better. Xander sighs a happy sigh. "I should get you patented," he murmurs.
Spike's only answer is a snort, but the stroking and massages continues.
"'S true," Xander insists, and yawns. He's putty in Spike's hands, all mushy and soft: his mind, heart, and dick. Metaphorically speaking, of course, he amends lazily.
"Hey, no falling asleep there," Spike objects. "Got plans for you."
"Horizontal plans. The kind where I handcuff you to the bed and bugger you into next week."
Xander affects a whine, but he rubs his toe against the hardness in Spike's pants. "Do I get a bath first?"
"Whatever turns you on." Spike gets up and moments later the sound of running water drifts out of the bathroom, followed by the fresh scent of green tea and tangerines, Xander's favorite bubble bath. Nice.
Before the noise lulls Xander to sleep he has room for one more coherent thought: how lucky he is to have his own private dick.
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