Seven related Spike/Xander drabbles.
Rating: R, to be safe.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: The truth is in the friction.
If he’s being honest, Xander’s not sure Spike’s ever said one entirely truthful word to him. It doesn’t matter, though. The truth is in the friction. In a gasp so bare and candid that it puts words to shame, makes Xander a slave to its creation. He suspects there’s a subtle irony in drawing unfiltered honesty from evil, in tying the most verbose of tongues, but irony’s not really his department. Right now, his department is making Spike gasp like that just one more time before he—
It’s not what Xander expected, but one honest word deserves another.
Xander’s not ready to talk, and he’s certainly not ready to listen to Spike, so he settles for the rasp of tongue on tongue, tongue on stubble. The latter leaves his mouth unoccupied, and he steers adamantly toward something to lick, an ear, a throat. Anything that’s pale and tastes of Spike. He waits for the questions, waits so long that he’s more desperate to know why Spike isn’t asking than anything else, but Spike and his mouth are otherwise engaged. The bed’s already a sticky mess, but they kiss like lovers, building friction, forgetting to leave, ignoring the truth.
Xander has to work in the morning, but he can’t say that because it’s part of the arrangement, and he’s pretty sure the arrangement went out the window about an hour ago. It’s just a configuration of bodies, light and dark, hard in all the right places, but suddenly, he’s not sure he wants Spike to leave. He can’t seem to offer an invitation to stay; instead, he remains silent, notices the friction in Spike’s eyes, watches as Spike pulls away.
“Slayer asked me to patrol.”
That’s part of the arrangement too, and Xander just nods, pretends it’s the truth.
Xander’s asleep when the knock sounds, and his brain is fuzzy and sated and forgets to tell him things, like that he should be wearing pants and that he shouldn’t smile softly as he scratches at the flaky white residue on his belly. He neglects to ask who’s at the door, and then he and Spike are sharing opposite ends of the threshold.
Bloody and dirty, such a beautiful mess, and Xander knows there’s a point here, but there’s also the friction of blue eyes on brown and the moment of truth shared in the silence of a kiss.
Xander’s hands explore, seeking hardness, and he’s surprised when it’s his thumb stroking a firm, angular cheekbone that causes Spike to tremble. He kisses that cheek, feels the friction of lips moving against skin, tastes dirt and blood and Spike.
A whisper before Xander’s stomach is bathed in coolness once again, and Xander realizes that some things don’t lie. Spike reaches out and Xander takes his hand, kisses it, changes its course. “Spike.”
Spike’s hand comes to rest on Xander’s cheek, and Xander shares the truth with him in the only way he can, warm and wet and complete.
It’s only after they’ve cleaned up, washed off the blood and dirt and stickiness and doubt, that Xander fully understands the point. Dirt. Blood. Patrol. Not just a convenient body and a timely excuse. He considers what Spike’s given him, touches one perfect cheekbone, fails to realize what he’s given Spike.
Blue eyes open, and Xander’s struck with a sudden urge to talk, verbalize conversations they’ve been having with their bodies, tackle the small army of whys and hows in his head. Instead, he lets Spike pull him close, feels the friction of body upon body, knows truth beyond words.
The alarm sounds, and it’s ripped from the wall, thrown to the floor before the second beep. A tousled blonde head burrows further under the covers, and the dam breaks. “Spike. Spike, I have to go to work. Hey. Are you awake?” Xander tugs on the covers until he can see Spike’s face. “Spike, I’m getting ready for work now.” Solemn brown eyes just inches from blue. Xander needs Spike to know he’s telling the truth. “Spike, listen, do you—” Xander stops talking, starts kissing. Tongue meets tongue, and the friction hits him hard, makes him forget the question.
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