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Cicirossi
Joss Whedon is God and owns all. It's still his world, although we like to sneak in the side door and cover Xander with chocolate sauce and whipped cream when no one's looking.
"Scrabble. That what you're calling it these days?"
"God, you have a one track mind, don't you?" Pushing at Spike's encroaching hands, Xander moved to sit up. Head still swimming, even though he felt better, and Spike caught him as he reeled alarmingly.
"Can I get you something to help, luv?"
"Like what? Protein shake? T-bone steak? Enchanted chocolate is the only thing on the menu for me these days, and we only have one bar left. And now we both need that, so it might be best to conserve." Xander didn't mean to sound so peevish, but even with the most recent chocolate high he felt a little weird, and dammit, he wanted Spike again. Always. Whatever.
"You could have some of my blood. Probably fix you right up."
"What? No! Absolutely not. Although the prospect is more than vaguely intriguing. But no. We have no idea how much you've taken from me today and I am not turning for you, Mister Vampire man." No defensiveness in Spike's posture, which Xander half-expected, just downcast eyes and a nod. Then a mumble that Xander didn't quite catch.
"What?"
"Said I feel bloody useless."
"Well you are. You're a parasite, Spike." It was meant to be a joke, because Xander really was a lot more mellow than he would expect to be about Spike munching on him, but Spike took it personally. Or at least it looked like he did, because he stiffened up like a real corpse and moved away from the couch, radiating disapproval. Or maybe hurt, and as many times as Xander had said nasty things to Spike and gotten them right back in return, he shouldn't feel guilty, but he did. "I was joking bleachboy."
"Yeah. Whatever." Rummaging through his coat, Spike pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one. And studiously ignored Xander.
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Xander tried to get up. And tried again when his head went all funny. Then tried one more time and made it to his feet. Okay that wasn't so bad. He could do it. Of course the space between he and Spike looked to be at least the size of the Grand Canyon, even if it was only about eight feet. If he stretched out on the floor he'd only have to crawl two feet to reach Spike's boots. Not a bad idea. But that would mean sitting back down, which would mean bending. Even troll hammers and beatings from Buffy didn't make him feel this weak. His legs finally decided for him and he sat rather suddenly, on the floor instead of the couch. And that finally made Spike look at him.
"You trying to kill yourself?"
"No, I was trying to make my way across the great wasteland that is my living room and kill you. So why don't you make yourself useful as well as ornamental and come help me up."
The speed of the Spike mood swing had to be off the charts, because the idiot was grinning again. "So, you think I'm pretty do you?"
"Not at the moment. Smug is a bad look for you. Pouty works much better. The floor is hard."
"Upsydaisy then." And just like that Spike was there in front of him and the world spun and back on the couch Xander went.
"Thank you. And I take it back. You are good for something. Now make yourself good for something else. I'm feeling all hot and kinda fever-y. You're nice and cool. Cuddle with me?"
"You're a closet sap, pet."
"No, I just don't see any sense in trying to do anything when I feel this gross. We can't do anything but sit and wait for the Buffster and Willow, and I can't get up, so snuggling is good."
Slipping onto the couch beside him, Spike draped himself over Xander's prone form and, well, snuggled. "Got a point there. But if you tell anyone I cuddled with you...."
"My lips are sealed."
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