Disclaimer: *said through gritted teeh*. They're not mine.
Author's Notes: This was written for nashmavericís Cole Porter Ficathon. I used the song "You're the Top" for inspiration. Points if you can spot lines from the song!
Summary: Xander and Spike are in Xander's basement, hanging out on a dull Tuesday evening. Add pot to this mix, and they start discussing what romance really is.
Who's it for?
Author name: emella
Preferred rating and genre: At least R; Romantic Comedy or Hurt/Comfort
Preferred pairing: Spike/Xander, Angel/Xander, Angel/Xander, or S/X/A
Second pairing choice: See above
You're the Top
The music winds across our skin as we dance in the shadows cast by the enormous creature - stone and metal, stained glass windows and stained red wood.
"Dru will be angry we're dancing in Paris without her," I grin - no regret, no suggestion of halting the rhythmic swinging of our hips.
"As will Darla," Angelus agrees. He bites my lips and throws his head back laughing when I step on a hand, it squelches beneath my heel. We spin together as the sun sets, challenges forgotten in the wash of fresh blood in the air and gypsy music in the sky. We are in love - or something like it.
Xander stared. Blinked in a manner he'd like to think was incredulous, but really looked more dopey, what with the dilated pupils. Spike stared back, unresponsive, slight smile on his lips as he took a deep drag on the spliff in his fingers.
"That is your idea of romantic?" Xander asked finally.
"Yeah," the reply was snapped defensively, arms folded, boots resting on Xander's ugly couch. Xander frowned and shoved the boots off because sure, ugly and cheap with a floral pattern that looked like globs of vomit, but it was his ugly couch.
"Discounting the fact that your romantic memory was with Angel, which by the way is so gross I can't even come up with a decent scathing comment, that memory is pathetic in the way of romance," he said with as much dignity as one could muster when they were stoned, in their underwear and hanging out with the evil undead. Which, admittedly, wasn't very much dignity at all.
"What would you know? You'd think a trip to the local piss poor excuse for a club followed by a quick shag in the back of your Datsun is the epitome of romance," Spike sneered, elegant fingers twisting around the neck of a bottle of beer, legs splayed, his boots back on the couch. Xander's breath caught, "... and don't give me that 'gross' shite - we both know you yearn for the Love, Forbidden," Spike added, accent slipping into something sharper, crisper in the muggy air of Xander's basement.
"What?" Xander asked, words before brain, not enough time to insert a look of disgust or launch into a quick speech of slurred denial. Not enough time for that - so he kept his eyes fixed on Spike's hands, sliding up and down the neck of the bottle in an obscene display of ... what? Bottle lust? Which begged the question - did vampires enjoy sexual romps with inanimate objects? Because though in theory the concept was 'ew', what Spike was doing to that bottle was making Xander have After School Special doubts about all sorts of lifestyle decisions.
"The Love, Forbidden? The Unspoken Yearning? The Shoving of A Dick Up Your Virgin Arse?" Spike asked, jaded glance and inherent ease in saying words that made Xander want to hide.
"Shut up," he managed, venom, mortified fury and seriously rethinking the intelligence of agreeing to get high with Spike in his basement on a dull Tuesday evening.
"Shut up," Spike repeated in a girly voice, mocking grin spreading across his features as he ran his hand up his own thigh. "You know nothing of romance, little boy. You know chocolates, flowers, bad movies and stale popcorn," he said scathingly, a jaded old man lying on Xander's couch with his boots on the ugly print.
"Romance is fake anyway - a ploy to make people buy stuff for each other before they break up and burn the said 'stuff' to make themselves feel better. Or you know, use the 'stuff' for wacky love spells that always go awry," he said, going for truthful cynicism but sounding more whiny when he said it. Maybe it was the lack of snide accent, maybe it was the lack of 200 years experience in watching people who loved each other torn apart and left bitter, alone and stuck in a basement that smelled James Brown level funky. Maybe he'd had too much pot.
"Bollocks," Spike said, dismissive wave of his hand, trail of grey ashes falling onto his black shirt, "That's your problem! Romance isn't about buying things. Call me love's bitch, but I know about these things - had enough bloody practice. I might be a pathetic poet, always been shite at that, but I know what romance is," Spike said, eyes shifting to the stained ceiling, sudden brilliant smile that catches Xander offguard.
"What is it then?" he asked, wondering if he even wanted to know that answer. Because what was romance in the eyes of a demon? Making a mix CD of your girlfriend's favourite screams of agony? A pile of drunk, pretty models, throats exposed, with a pink bow around their waists? A basket of dead pupp ... Xander winced. Then wondered why it was that the idea of hurt puppies disturbed him more the idea of hurt humans. Reasoned most humans weren't nearly as cute when they tried to hump your leg. And ... oh. Spike was talking again.
"It's about ... going to the Louvre museum and staring at the person beside you more than at the paintings. Listening to a symphony by Strauss and wanting to rip out the conductors throat, because your lover's voice is far more interesting to listen to. It's looking out to a purple night in Spain and laughing - because try as it might, the sky will never be as inspiring as him in that moment," Spike said, slight hiss to his voice as he took another drag of the spliff and let his other hand drift lazily over his crotch. "Romance is walking through the steppes of Russia, watching Balinise dancers in firelight, swimming in the Nile under a white moon, listening to a sodding Shakespearean sonnet and knowing that your lover will always be more beautiful. Will always be the top," he explained, eyes shut now, palm scraping across the bulge in his jeans, low groan in his throat when Xander's hand seemed to creep up of it's own accord and run down his leg. "Nothing compares," he muttered, low and guttural, demon and human all in one, hot and horny when Xander brushed his fingers across his waist.
"Compares what to?" Xander asked, voice rough and scraping.
"Compares to love, moron. Bloody ... fuck, yeah ... hell, you're not quick on the uptake, are you?" Spike gasped when Xander's hand moved downwards, brushing between his legs experimentally. Spike sat up, puled Xander's head towards his, lips crushed, tasting like beer and smoke. Xander didn't hesitate, was tired of hesitating, was sick of pausing before he made a decision because that had never protected him from hurt before. Anya was gone, left him to find an attractive older man with oodles of cash and a heart problem, and he'd paused before that relationship, hadn't he? Weighed the Pros (female, pretty, liked sex) again the Cons (not male, not the pretty he craved, liked to wreak vengeance on people) and decided on the sensible thing to do. Xander shut his eyes - jumped into the unknown. Spike was clawing at his skin with blunt nails painted black and Xander pulled his shirt open, lips sliding down his neck, hotwetheat moving, hands twisting painfully in his hair ...
"Xander, do you and your friend want peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?" his mother yelled.
They tumbled off the couch.
"Ow," Xander muttered, rubbing the back of his head, "No Mom!" he shouted, very aware of the fact that he was (as predicted) pinned to the floor beneath Spike. Who was giggling. Not laughing, not cackling, not sniggering in that superior English way ... just giggling. Giggling Spike. A new and scary addition to Xander's very muddled life. "What?" he asked, feeling very sober, the fun buzz of a minute ago suddenly leaving him with a headache, a sexuality crisis and a giggling vampire sitting on his chest.
"I'm the top," Spike snorted, arms either side of Xander's head, lips inching their way closer to his mouth. His eyes were dark grey from this angle, unnatural hair ungelled, framing his face so sharp he looked as though he'd been cut from marble. Xander shrugged off his thoughts, his logical rational thoughts, and decided to enjoy this before it blew up in his face - which it would, undoubtedly.
Xander hadn't seen Russia, Bali, Egypt, France, Spain or Italy. "Yeah, Spike. You are," he muttered. In that moment, he was pretty sure that even if he did see all those places, Spike would still end up being more beautiful. Would still end up being the top ... and judging by the lascivious grin, he would be the top in more ways than one.
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