Reprieve

Fit of Pique

If you missed the first two stories, here they are:

Keeper

First Aid

Summary: Xander decides to follow Spike during "Sleeper"
Story notes:Spoilers through First Date
Rating: NC 17
Disclaimer: All hail the mighty Joss, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox Film Corporation, and revered affiliates.
Acknowledgements: Thanks, as always, to the betalicious saussy for the hand holding, editing, and for always being willing to jump into her strap-on and act out scenes so I know what goes where. She is very devoted to her craft.

Xander
I'm standing on Buffy's back porch, hands in pockets, bouncing impatiently on the balls of my feet, watching and waiting for the sun to go down. It's taking its sweet-ass time, sliding lazily toward the horizon, and I'm running out of patience. I'm operating on next to no sleep, I'm edgy and exhausted, and I'm itching to get away from slayer central. Literally itching too – the skin around the cut in my stomach feels a size too small and it's irritated and hot and sore and I just want to get home and have a bath. With hot water. And no potentials hovering around trying to catch a glimpse of my naked manly bits. Not that I'm feeling particularly manly right now – not after last night's debacle. You know, because nothing says macho like getting trussed up, stabbed, and ritually bled over a demonic seal by your utterly terrifying, she-demon date.

And speaking of utterly terrifying, Spike is standing just a few feet behind me in the shadows, leaning against the doorframe, and smoking a rare cigarette. I can feel the weight of his gaze resting on me, but I don't turn around. And I don't say anything either. I don't know what the hell to say. I'm just so goddamn tired and confused. I've run over what happened a million times in my mind, trying to sort it out and failing miserably. I'd run over it in my car if I thought that would work.

Does Spike even remember what happened that night at the bar? I know he's recovered the memory of his little killing spree, but he and I haven't had an actual discussion since, well, since ever really. It's not like I can just come out and ask him, "Spike, do you remember that incredibly hot kiss we shared at the gay bar?" That's just not going to happen, so I have no idea if he felt what I felt. The whole thing is beyond fucked up. I know I should be ashamed that our one kiss has topped every other sexual experience I've ever had, that it's become my one and only masturbatory fantasy. And I am ashamed. But that doesn't stop me from hoping it will happen again. I keep reminding myself that it's Spike for fuck's sake. He's in love with Buffy. He hates me. If something did happen between us, it would just be him getting his revenge on the guy who tried to cut off his head with an axe. But, if that's the case, what was that in the car last night? Maybe it's wishful thinking, but Spike seemed to be feeling a little lusty himself. And the way he touched me...God, it was so gentle...like a caress. Thinking about it is driving me insane, but I can't stop. It's on continuous replay in my brain.

That's why this situation is the most fucked up thing ever. When Buffy told me that she wanted me to move back home with Spike, and that it was his idea, I was floored. I thought he'd be thrilled to finally be where he always wanted to be. In Buffy's house. In Buffy's life. But, colour me confused, he wants to protect the girls more than he wants to charm his way back into Buffy's bed. And I'm feeling a whole mess of conflicting emotions about what's going to happen next. I'm excited, in a nervous, queasy way. I'm scared that Spike will try something. I'm terrified that he won't. And I know I'm being pathetic, but I just want to go home and get back to the regularly scheduled programming that is Xander's so-called life, even if it does include a vampire roommate who may very well be responsible for making me gay.

Finally the sun takes a bow and Spike wordlessly grabs both our bags and heads for my car. He looks as anxious to get the hell out of Dodge as I am. On the way back to the apartment, we swing by the butcher and the grocer to stock up on the staples – and who would ever have guessed that I would one day consider blood a staple – and the next thing I know, we're home sweet home.

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Spike
Xander is so long in the bath that I'm thinking about going in to make sure he hasn't bloody well drowned. If he hadn't occasionally sighed, loudly and melodramatically, I would have barged in ages ago. Instead, I'm sprawled on the couch, enjoying the peace and quiet, pretending to read a book, and thinking things I really shouldn't be thinking about my once-again flatmate. Thinking about the way he kissed me, nothing held back, like he was pouring his entire soul into it. So hungry and sweet...tender and fierce at the same time. Bloody erotic is what it was. Wonder if he would fuck like that too.

Finally Xander walks into the living room clad in nothing but a pair of old jeans. They hang low on his hips and he looks beat up and...bloody delicious actually. Sod it all, I'm not exactly having the purest of thoughts over here. He barely glances in my direction though, heading straight for the kitchen and pulling a first aid kit and a bottle of bourbon from one of the cupboards. Even from this vantage point, I can see his hands shaking as he pours a very generous measure into a glass. He struggles for a minute with the ice cube tray before upending it all over the kitchen floor, cursing and kicking childishly at a piece before scooping up a few cubes and dropping them in the glass. He takes a few long swallows, and I'm momentarily distracted by his ability to throw back liquor like it was water. Seems he's had a bit of practice at that. Well, that makes two of us. I'm so lost in my thoughts I don't notice that Harris has turned to look at me and caught me staring at him.

"What?" he snaps, a bit harsh really, though when he looks at me he's wearing a half-apologetic expression on his face.

Old habits die hard, and I'm a bit brassed off that he's essentially ignored me all day, so I can't really stop myself from getting a jab in. "What's the matter, Harris? Nervous?"

"Nervous? Why would I be nervous, Spike? I love the idea of rooming with a recently reformed serial killer who's been known to carry out the orders of the ultimate evil! The fact that you might burst through a wall and take a gigantic bite out of me at any time just keeps me on my toes."

He's a bleedin' smartass, but he does have a point there. Better put his mind at ease.

"Harris, if I really thought my evil twin was going to make an encore appearance, I'd never have agreed to this. 'Sides, if I do go all Mr. Hyde on you, you stopped me once before, right? Could do it again. You're safe as houses."

Guess I shouldn't have mentioned that night, 'cause Xander suddenly looks like he wishes he were anywhere but here. I'm going to start taking it personally in a minute if he doesn't soddin' relax. Didn't seem all that worried about my fangs when he had his tongue down my throat at that bar. I think about making a sarcastic comment to that effect, but I bite my tongue. I don't want us to be like that anymore. We spent the past five years honing our mutual dislike to a razor's edge – tearing each other down – and I don't want to hurt him any more. He looks pathetic enough as it is, trying to hold a piece of gauze over his wound with one hand while clumsily unrolling the medical tape with the other. Should really help him with that.

"Need a hand?" I ask, and I'm already walking toward him, skirting around the counter. And now I'm standing in front of him, just inches away, close enough that I could lean in and kiss him, if I was so inclined. I don't, of course. Xander nods without looking up at me and hands me the tape and scissors. He sneaks a look at me from under his lashes and I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile before getting him bandaged up. I run my hand across his abdomen to smooth out the tape and his muscles jump.

"Sorry 'bout that, mate. You know what they say – cold hands, warm heart. Load of shite, that."

I look him directly in the eyes, and he looks away. Fast. His heart is thundering, blood rushing to the surface of his skin, and the pheromones are just pouring off him. He smells positively edible, all spicy soap and lust. His hair is damp and messy, his chest is deliciously flushed, and I can't stop myself from raking my eyes over him in a hungry way. I want to taste him. I'm still trying to decide whether I should just lean in and snog him when he moves away from me. He says thanks, picks up his drink, and before I can say a word he's across the living room and in his bedroom with the door closed. Bugger!

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Xander
Okay, what the hell was that? Was Spike just about to kiss me? Jesus Christ! Is this some kind of game to him? He can't want me. And I sure as hell don't want to feel this way about Spike. To like him. To want him. But I'm starting to like him. And I want him so much it hurts. And he must know it. What the hell am I going to do? I flop down on the bed and slump against the headboard, running my fingers through my still-damp hair. I shift around, trying to get comfortable, and end up lying on my back with my head propped up on all the pillows. I try to remember the deep breathing exercises that Willow taught me.

Okay. Sip of bourbon. Oh, that's good. Breathing deeply and clearing the mind. Not thinking is very much of the good right now. Oops. Okay, sort of more hyperventilating than deep breathing. A bit more of the drink. Why isn't this working?

My heart feels like it's going to thud its way out of my chest. I toy briefly with the idea of calling Willow – asking her about the whole gay thing – but I know she would want to know what caused this unexpected sexual identity crisis. And even though she's the one person who might understand, I can't tell her about this thing with Spike. For one thing, I have no idea if Buffy still has feelings for Spike. Oh Jesus. What if Buffy still has feelings for Spike? I guess I'll have to jump off that bridge when I come to it. But in the meantime, I don't want to put Willow in an uncomfortable position. And for another, it's Spike for Christ's sake. I'm supposed to hate him with the burning passion of a thousand suns. Unfortunately, I'm all about the passion right now but, try as I might, I can't seem to make with the hating at all.

I get up and stand for a moment staring into the mirror and wondering when I became such a stranger to myself. It isn't my careworn face, my newest scar, the extra twenty pounds I'm carrying around, or anything I can really put my finger on. It's just...me. I look strange. Unfamiliar. But it isn't the way I look that's different, not really, it's what's going on inside me. Do I look like a man who's got a one-way ticket on the crazy train? Maybe. Maybe not. People change all the time; they say change is good, right? At least that's what I'm going to go with as a theme for this whole thing. Because it is a thing. A new thing. I feel like I've been completely hollowed out and I have to start all over – figure out what I believe, what I want, who I am. It scares me.

I gulp my drink and consider undressing and getting into bed even though it's not even 9 o'clock on a Saturday night. I could easily play the recently stabbed card, but a part of me that I don't want to examine too closely actually wants to go back into the living room and try to figure out what the hell is going on with me and Spike. He looked kind of irresistible lying on the couch with his mussed up hair and his too-tight t-shirt and jeans. He looked relaxed, and I don't think many people get to see Spike really relaxed. I want to look at him some more. I want to talk to him. And the touching of me was also very, very good. Wouldn't mind if Spike did some more of that. My God, what is wrong with me? I'm sick. I must be under some kind of spell or curse. Yup, probably a curse. Unfortunately, but predictably, my nervous breakdown is interrupted by a sharp rap at the bedroom door. I say nothing.

"Harris?" Surprisingly, Spike's voice is not mocking. In fact, it's downright friendly.

"What do you want, Spike?" I try to sound snarky but fail. Fail to sound anything but flat and resigned.

"I'm going to The Bronze. You want to come with?"

He sounds sincere. No ridicule, no desire to humiliate. Thank God. I sigh to myself, wonder briefly if I'll regret my answer before the evening is out, but the alternative is just too goddamned sad. I've already spent too many nights alone in this apartment, listening to depressing country music, drinking myself into a stupor, and trying to figure out how this became my life. I don't want to be that guy anymore.

"Okay."

"Leave in an hour?"

"Yeah."

And then the only sound in the apartment is Spike's footsteps walking away followed by the too familiar sound of bottle and glass clinking and liquor gurgling. Ah, the sweet sounds of my youth. I sip at my almost finished drink, wish I had brought the bottle so I wouldn't have to face Spike right away, and then try to stop my mind from going to the forbidden place of sexy Spike thoughts. God, I don't want to think. Thinking leads to feeling and feeling leads to pain. Pain is bad. I just want to be numb. Numb is a good feeling. Well, numb is actually the absence of feeling, but I wouldn't say no to some numb right now.

I lie back down on the bed and close my eyes. I try the breathing thing again, and it's almost working when the stereo blasts to life with the mellow song stylings of...The Temptations? The hell? Apparently Spike's taste in music has taken a soulful turn just like the rest of him. Go figure. I'm still processing this when Spike knocks on the door again. Oh fuck it.

"Come in."

The door swings open and Spike walks into the room carrying a glass and the bottle of bourbon and wearing an amused look. He walks around the bed and sits down beside me, tipping bourbon into my glass smooth as a bartender. I take a sip of my drink and try to act like having Spike sitting beside me on my bed is not freaking me the hell out. I fail spectacularly when I inhale the bourbon instead of swallowing it. Then everything goes pear shaped and I'm choking. I can't believe I'm fucking choking and all I can think about is how idiotic I must look. Somehow Spike swings me around so my legs are hanging over the edge of the bed and he thwacks me on the back until I start to breathe again. Ow. My eyes are watering and I'm gasping in huge lungfuls of air and I'm a feeling a little dizzy, so I put my head between my knees and try to calm down. But I can't calm down because Spike's hand is still resting on my back and he's sort of petting me awkwardly now. God, I'm so confused. This completely innocent touch is wreaking havoc on my body and all kinds of crazy notions are running through my mind and I'm tired of thinking things to death so I sit up and turn around so I'm facing Spike. And then I kiss him, just like that.

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Spike
I wish Harris telegraphed his kisses the way he does his punches, because I'm a bit shocked when he turns to me just seconds after having a choking fit and presses his warm mouth to mine. He tastes of bourbon and something else distinct and indescribable. So sweet. Before my brain has time to get the message to my lips to respond, he pulls away. He's looking at me now, all dark-eyed and vulnerable and – oh God – I want him. But I don't want to scare him. I smile and take his drink, which he's miraculously still holding, and turn away briefly to get rid of both glasses. Want my hands free for this. Think I'm going to need them.

I move closer and kiss him gently, just barely teasing his lips with my tongue. He seems a little nervous, but I suspect he just wants a bit of encouragement. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it behind me in one swift motion and wait to see what he'll do. For a moment I'm afraid he'll just stare at me forever, but finally he reaches over and drags his moist fingertips down my throat. I shiver. When his hand comes to rest on my shoulder, he leans in and kisses me, more confident this time, harder. Feels so bloody nice.

One of my hands is lightly grasping the side of Xander's neck and his pulse flutters under my palm like a trapped bird. My other hand comes up to tease at his nipples, and he gasps and breaks contact. When he kisses me again, he's moaning, low in his throat, and my cock jumps in response. Have to have him. Now. I pull him toward me and down onto the bed so we're laying on our sides, face to face, chest to chest, and I dive in for another kiss, running my tongue along his, stroking and tasting, and he responds in kind, tilting his head to the side and opening up to it. Opening up to me. We're both groaning and Xander's plundering my mouth with his hot tongue and he's touching me now, stroking my erection through my jeans. A bit tentative, but that's alright. Expect he hasn't done this before.

I don't want to freak him out, but I want more – more touching, more skin – so I undo his jeans with one hand and mine with the other. I am ambidextrous, you know, should take advantage of it. I slide my hand inside his boxers and Xander pulls back from me again and the look he gives me is wary and there's a question in it. I feel I should say something reassuring, and I start wracking my lust-addled brain for something appropriate. I want this, want him, but I need to know what he wants. And I need him to tell me.

"Do you want this, Xander?" I mean for it to sound ironic, because I have my hand wrapped around his rather impressive erection and it's kind of a dead giveaway. My voice is husky though, and I don't sound as sure of myself as I had intended. Sound like I'm afraid he'll say no. And I think I am afraid, which is just weird. Who is this boy to me?

He doesn't answer at first, just looks down at my hand on his cock. I stroke it once, slowly and firmly. "Yesssss," he hisses and grabs my hips, pulling me toward him, dragging his hardness over my aching dick.

"You're sure?" I don't want any misunderstandings.

"Fuck, Spike! Please." One of his hands is sliding inside my jeans and grabbing my ass and that's it – discussion over – he wants this. We start grinding against each other and the friction is almost unbearable. I can feel my orgasm building...pleasure from all these discrete parts of my body migrating to that sweet spot at the base of my spine and slowly unfurling. Xander is mumbling into my mouth and all I can make out is my name and yes and fuck and God and I'm murmuring the same sort of nonsense to him. He's trying to tug my jeans over my hips one-handed and I want him naked too so we're both struggling and squirming and kicking denim loose and finally we're stripped bare and everything goes very, very still.

I can hear the rapid thub thub of his heart, the whisper of his blood, the stereo playing Ain't Too Proud To Beg to the empty living room. And then slowly, sweetly, we start to move...skin to skin...not rushing toward orgasm now but savouring the sensations. Hips thrusting languidly, cocks brushing against each other, our mouths meeting again and again in slow, perfect kisses.

God, I need this. Not just the physical release but this feeling of...reprieve. I know it's just sex, but it feels like more than that. For the first time in so long, I feel like I don't have to struggle or fight or beg. I can just be here with him, accept this happiness. I sink into it, let it wash over me, let it drown me.

I could stay this way forever, wrapped up tight in his arms, melting into his hot mouth, but Xander's hips are starting to move, harder and faster, and I'm drawn inexorably toward the edge. I want to fling myself over the way I do whenever I stand and look down from a height, except this time there's no need to stop myself. This time I want to fall. I speed up to match Xander's pace and then we're both shouting and – oh Christ! – coming. And fuck, it feels so bloody good. Afterwards, we lie there, completely boneless and utterly shagged, and I can't stop kissing him.

I don't know how much time has passed when Xander finally rolls out of my arms and leans over to grab a towel from the chair by the bed. We wipe ourselves off and he gets up and pulls on his jeans. I do the same. Then he sits back down and looks at me like he's expecting me to say something profound. But I'm dazed and fuck-dumb and sod it there's no way I can come up with the words that will tie this up in a pretty ribbon. I do my best though. "Well...we haven't done that before.

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Xander
I don't know if it's the earnest look on his face or what he said, but Spike's oh so insightful comment makes me want to laugh. I can feel it bubbling up inside me like a soft drink that's been shaken and I look down at my hands and try to stop it from fizzing out. Not as easy as it sounds. I just got off with my mortal enemy. He's standing in front of me with bed head, looking very much like someone who's just been nicely fucked. He's incredible looking. And I should probably be freaked out by that thought, and I should definitely be freaked out by what we just did, but I'm not. Not right now. I just feel too good. Little aftershocks of pleasure are pinging around my body and just looking up at Spike's abs sends another rush of warmth straight to my cock. And thinking about it is making it impossible for me to hold the hilarity in. My shoulders are shaking with silent laughter and my stomach is really starting to hurt when I finally look up at Spike's face. He's wearing a worried expression.

"Sodding hell, Harris, you daft bugger. I thought you were crying." I try to apologize, to explain, but I can't speak. I just laugh harder. I think Spike's trying to look pissed off, but he fails. And then he's laughing too and after a minute he collapses on the bed beside me, clutching his sides, tears streaming down his face. We must look like a couple of loons rolling around on the bed in hysterics, but man, it feels good. I can't remember the last time I laughed like this, and I don't think I've ever heard Spike really laugh. It's a good sound.

Eventually we manage to pull ourselves together and we're sitting grinning at each other like a couple of fucking idiots when the phone rings. I find the cordless buried under a pile of clothes and magazines and other stuff that I emptied out of my duffel when I got home. It's Buffy calling to check up on me and to ask Spike to patrol with her and some of the potentials. We chat for a bit and I reassure her that Spike really isn't bothering me, which almost sets me off again, and then I hand him the phone. What follows is the shortest, most monosyllabic telephone conversation of all time, at least from this end. "Yeah. Right. Yeah. Bye." Somebody call Guinness.

Spike bends over and snags his shirt from the floor, says, "Better get cleaned up then," and heads for the bathroom. I'm still sitting on the bed with a full body buzz, sipping at my reclaimed drink, when he materializes in front of me again, hair smoothed out, dressed and ready to go.

"So, you'll be alright then?" He looks uncertain, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes that don't quite meet mine. Looking up at him, I suddenly feel very small. I stand up and start talking, Xander-style, fast and glib.

"Yup. I'll be fine. Spending the past couple of months in a house full of nubile young women has prevented me from enjoying many of my favourite manly pursuits. So I'll just be here. Making up for lost time." Spike looks at me, eyebrow raised in disbelief, and I realize what I've said. "No! God not – no! – I'm just going to park my ass on the couch with the remote and watch sports and action movies while drinking beer. I definitely didn't mean that I'd..."

Before I can even finish, Spike is pulling me toward him and kissing me, first softly, then more insistently. I melt into it, losing myself in the feel of his lips and the taste of him. He pulls away too soon and then nods toward the bed. "That was...well, thanks for that." His cool fingers ghost along my flushed cheek, whisper soft, and then he's gone, door closing quietly behind him, before I can formulate a response that would be more than just a moan.

And I'm alone with my thoughts for the first time in way too long. You'd think that would be a bad thing, in light of what's happened over the past couple of days, but it's so not. How weird is it that, for the first time in my life, I just had a romantic encounter that didn't feel forced or wrong on some basic level? And that it was with Spike? What happened with us, well, it just happened. It seemed inevitable almost. And I don't know what it means, but I do know that I feel more peaceful than I have in a very, very long time. I have no idea what the hell we'll say to each other tomorrow, but tonight, it just doesn't matter. I should get cleaned up, shower, brush my teeth, but I don't. I crawl up to the top of the bed, shuck off my jeans, and slip under the covers. I have about one minute to think how the pillow smells indefinably of Spike, and then everything slides away and I'm asleep.

The End

The Sequel: Everything Fades