They Tell Me It Rained

by
Savoy Truffle

Part Five

The blowjob seems to come by way of apology.

Having ordered his breakfast, Xander walks back to the bedroom and up to the foot of the bed. Spike leans against the headboard, dragging on his cigarette as he watches Xander watching him—exhales, smoke sliding slowly from between his lips. Spike thinks that he ought to say something, opens his mouth… but Xander’s mouth is faster—opens wide as Xander drops to his knees, then closes again around Spike’s cock.

Sucks.

Warm and wet and something inside tries to tell Spike that he shouldn’t let Xander do this—maybe any of this—or that if he does, he should at least put out his cigarette first. But Spike is enjoying the cigarette and he’s enjoying the blowjob and he’s learned to ignore the voice inside at times like these. You really can’t let your sodding soul run your sex life.

Not if you want a sex life worth living.

The food arrives somewhere in the middle, heralded by a knock on the door. Xander tries to stand, but Spike hooks an ankle around his back to hold him in place. “Leave it at the door,” Spike yells, “and charge it to my account.”

It’s a fucking miracle he’s still that coherent.

Xander gives a hell of an apology.

Afterwards, Spike faces a choice between trying to get Xander to talk about it and continuing to keep their mouths otherwise occupied—this time with breakfast. Spike ponders for about point-two seconds before he rolls out of bed and goes to fetch the bag outside the door, sticking a couple packets of blood in the microwave on the way.

Of course, the third option would be to kick Xander out in a huff of moral righteousness and virtue…

Yeah, right.

Xander’s all grown up now and perfectly capable of sending his own soul to hell—with or without Spike’s help. Besides, Spike figures Xander’ll bolt after breakfast—back to wherever and whoever he came from.

What’s weird is that he doesn’t.

Xander does pull on a pair of jeans—because humans have that modesty thing or whatever—but then he just spreads the breakfast out over the coffee table, picks up a fork and a box containing bacon and scrambled eggs, and sinks down into the leather couch.

Spike sinks down next to him with a mug of blood and when the silence gets too loud he turns on the TV. It’s Saturday morning cartoons and after about twenty minutes, Spike notices that Xander is actually watching them— following them—and, yeah, that makes sense when you think about it, which Spike doesn’t intend to do.

They’re done with their respective breakfasts now and Xander has unbuttoned his jeans and slipped his hand around his cock and is jacking himself slowly while Spike watches, and it’s an easy way to avoid thinking and talking so Spike takes it, crawling to the other side of the couch to straddle Xander. Spike’s fingers find the little plastic cup of whipped butter on the coffee table and Xander frowns for a moment as Spike slides the buttery fingers inside himself, but seems to stop caring about what counts as appropriate lube right around the time Spike sinks down on his cock and begins to ride him.

Of course being covered in ejaculate and animal fat cuts down on the glow of the afterglow, so after is just after and they climb into the shower together. And when they climb out Spike really expects Xander to dress and go, but Xander just digs an unbuttered pair of jeans from his duffel bag and sinks back down into the couch.

Spike picks up the remote and changes the channel from football to football.

Part Six

The day only gets weirder when they start to have fun. It sneaks up on them bit by bit and little bit and little bit—a beer here, a snarky comment there, a smattering of gossip, Spike’s Angel impression, Xander’s Buffy impression—until suddenly they’re working their way through Spike’s video game collection, eating their weight in greasy pizza and trash talking like it’s going out of style.

And when the competition gets a bit too intense, they decide to make love not war and fuck on the living room floor until they’re so wasted they can’t even move themselves back up to the couch—though pizza overindulgence may be a contributing factor.

In a strange twist of fate, the past has become their most neutral ground and, as they sprawl amidst the empty pizza boxes, crumpled cigarette packs and abandoned game controllers, they re-fight the best of the Sunnydale battles together—boasting, bragging and engaging in the wholesale rewriting of history, as necessary.

At some point, they grow desperate for beer and flip a game controller and it comes up heads, forcing Xander to crawl all the way to the refrigerator and then all the way back, dragging his six-pack of boozy booty behind him.

And by the time two trips worth of boozy booty have been plundered, they’re re-fighting the worst of the Sunnydale battles—or at least the most ridiculous—and they’re laughing a lot at themselves and more at each other, and who knew these memories would ever be good ones, especially between them?

They talk about going to bed, but the talking just wears them out more so they crash on the floor for a couple of hours until Xander wakes up to pee, waking Spike up with the popping of his spine as he stands and straightens.

Xander stretches his arms above his head, popping three more vertebrae into place, and flashes a rueful grin. “I think a bed might be called for.”

And where there’s a bed, two mostly naked bodies and wakefulness, sex seems to be called for, but they’re kind of exhausted so they get stuck on the kissing for a while, side-by-side—prone bodies, active lips.

And it’s not the kind of thing they’ve done much of in the last twenty-four hours, and it’s not the kind of thing Spike should enjoy—or be letting himself enjoy—but Xander’s surprisingly good at it and it’s hard not to get lost… at least a little.

Spike does get hard eventually, but Xander doesn’t—he’s only human after all—so when the kisses trail off into nothing, Spike resigns himself to rolling over and sleeping it off. But Xander rolls first—onto his back—spreads his legs and says:

“Willing, but weak. Think you can drive?”

And of course he can, but this is the first time Xander’s eyes and body are saying, “you may” and Spike wonders if he should read anything into the offer(ing), but decides to stop reading and start taking.

Because.

Part Seven

The phone rings at the same time the following morning. Xander’s left it on the nightstand this time, so he doesn’t have to scramble to answer, just rolls off of Spike and out of bed, flips open the phone and says “Hey, baby” as he walks out onto the balcony, naked.

Like déjà vu, Spike listens to the same conversation and when Xander walks back in Spike still knows that Xander knows that Spike heard. There’s a silence as they stare at each other.

“Order me the French toast,” Spike says.

“It’s complicated,” Xander says.

Spike blinks because even—or maybe especially—after yesterday and last night this isn’t what he was expecting. “Don’t always figure these things out in time,” he says. “Not your fault.” Which is strange, because he’s never been one for letting people off the hook.

Xander doesn’t blink. “I knew I was gay when I married her.”

Spike pauses, nods, lights a cigarette. “Did she know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does she now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay…” Spike isn’t sure what to make of that.

Xander shrugs. “As long as the INS doesn’t know, it really doesn’t matter.”

Spike inhales, exhales. “Not real, then.”

“Depends on your ‘real.’ Some places, ‘real’ is when he puts a roof over your head and feeds you and the kids. Hell, some places that’s real-plus.”

“How many?”

“Just the one.” Xander’s face lights up at the thought. “Farida. She’s three.”

“She yours?”

“Yes,” Xander says in a tone that adds ‘in every way that counts’ and dares Spike to even try to imply otherwise.

Spike doesn’t dare. “Gonna have more?”

“Doubt it.”

“You and she even…?” Spike waves his cigarette around to complete the question.

“Not often,” Xander says. “Sometimes she thinks we should, so we do, but I don’t think she likes it much.”

“You that bad with women, then? ’Cause you seem to know your way around a bloke.”

“Thanks.” Xander manages an almost smile for the almost compliment. “I don’t think it’s me. She’s had a rough time. She just… needed to get out. Hell, so did I.”

Spike nods. He can imagine; he doesn’t need the details. But still… “Can’t be the only one needed saving over there. Why her?”

The question earns a sort of laugh—not quite amused, not quite bitter. “Ironically, I was fucking her brother. And before you ask, no, she definitely didn’t know about that.”

“So you took her home and left him behind.”

“Nah. Brought him over a year later. And their mom. It’s easier once they’re all family.”

Spike puts out his cigarette, lights another. “Sounds like a full house.”

“Council pays well,” Xander says, with a shrug like it’s near the end of the conversation.

And Spike should probably let it go, but he has just one more question. “You and the brother—you two still…?”

“Oh no.” Xander shakes his head and laughs for real this time. “My life’s not quite that fucked up.”

Part Eight

Xander does order the French toast for Spike, and waffles for himself, and when they kiss after breakfast, syrup mixes and mingles with blood—sugary-coppery on the tips of their tongues.

Too good and they mean not to do it again, but the kisses creep up on them when they’re not listening—when they’re talking or laughing, when the TV is blaring, when the controllers are clicking and the players are groaning and grunting. Silences come upon them suddenly and they find their faces inches apart and the battle is lost again and again.

It’s there. It’s everywhere. The End. Lingering and lurking since the first night, but they draw its curtain over it, around it, deny it and disguise it.

They know how not to see.

They’ve had practice.

They order in again—Indian sometime past lunch, then, between nine and midnight, eggrolls, milkshakes and hotwings, in that order, from three different restaurants—because it’s not about the ways things are supposed to be, but the way they should be.

They watch some movie because it’s on and it’s all guns, no plot, which is just as well since sex pops up at irregular intervals and tends to last longer than the commercial breaks. They make it to bed around two a.m. and they’re past sex but beyond sleep, so they lie close together in the dark and speak truths in low voices—but only the ones that aren’t reality.

The light of dawn doesn’t make it through the curtains, but Spike can feel the rising of the sun and his grip on Xander tightens just a moment before he feigns a drift into sleep. Moments of perfect stillness pass, measured by the beating of Xander’s heart, and then warm skin is sliding over and away but Spike doesn’t move an inch. Hours or maybe minutes later, he hears the snick of the door. The bed has already gone cold.

Spike walks out to the kitchen, looks down at the note on the counter. Thank you.

Half a dozen crumpled bits of paper float in a nearby waste basket. False starts. He doesn’t read them. He already knows what Xander couldn’t say.

He’ll go out tonight. When he comes home, they’ll be gone.



Xander stows his duffel bag in the overhead compartment, sits down and tries not to look approachable. As usual, he fails.

“Man, I hate flying. You from around LA or just visiting?”

Yes, Xander thinks, but that’s not the answer that will shut the man up. “Visiting,” he says, without making eye contact.

The man doesn’t take the one-word answer as a hint. “Me, too,” he says, like it makes them long lost brothers. “How long were you in town?”

“The weekend.”

“Me, too.” Like it’s some amazing coincidence. “You have a good time?”

Xander doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I really did.”

He doesn’t need to turn to see the man nodding. “Yeah, it’s a nice place. Fucking shame about the weather, though.”

“Hmm?”

“They say it never rains in Southern California, you know? Just my luck—the weekend I’m here it rains two days straight. Kind of disappointing, you know?”

A too-long pause and Xander looks over at the man.

“To tell you the truth,” he says. “I didn’t notice.”

The End

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