Disclaimer: What’re you lookin’ at?
Concrit/Feedback: Don’t hate the playa, hate the game.
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set in S4 summer, pre-Dawn and Anya who?
Summary: These are hammiepoo’s prompts: Spike walking in on cheatin’-dawg!Xan with another man--and pretending not to be hurt, and assumptions, gutted, casual, irritated. Five hundred words.
It’s three hours later when the boy shows up at the crypt, rosy-clean and reeking of deodorant soap.
“What?” Spike doesn’t look up from the chaos of a scrambled footie match, even when a warm hand descends on his shoulder.
He’s fairly relieved Harris bothered to hose himself off after. There’s no hearts and flowers in their . . . relationship--no poetry between them beyond the words two men spout when they’re trying to get off--but visiting your fuck-buddy smelling like the other bloke you’re shagging?
--over-developed git kneeling between his boy’s thighs hips pistoning forward trying to drive them both through the wall behind the bed huge ham-hands on his boy’s hips so tight there’ll be bruises later hand-shaped reminders that some anonymous joe’s been where Spike can’t go--
Yes, Emily Post probably has a whole chapter dedicated to why that’s bad etiquette.
“Look, Spike . . .” There’s muzzy distress in Harris’s scent and absurdly, that makes Spike feel better. Makes him ready to be magnanimous in the face of excuses, or apologies, or whatever Harris is working himself up to.
“Spike . . . just ‘cause I said you can come over, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t . . . you know--call before you do.”
And that’s so far from the charmingly stammered apology--followed by a make-up shag that would’ve left them both wrung out and Spike unable to sit for hours--he’d assumed was forthcoming, that it guts him. Not quick and scalpel-precise, but slowly and jaggedly, like a saw.
(Having been done for by both scalpel and saw on several occasions, Spike is in a unique position for comparisons.)
“Don’t get me wrong,” Harris is saying in a strangely gentle voice. He squeezes Spike’s shoulder in a very manly, platonic way. “You can drop by whenever, just . . . call first, in case I have company, okay?”
“Whatever, loser,” Spike says as casually as he can and the saw bites a bit deeper.
“Jerk. . . .” that platonic shoulder squeeze turns into something less comradely and more sensual. Helplessly, Spike makes a sound of pure want low in his throat . . . and like that, Harris’s is kneeling between Spike’s legs, unzipping his jeans, his eyes bright and impersonal.
But the scent of Harris’s distress is being replaced by something darker, sharper and more honest, so Spike closes his eyes and pretends.
Because what else is there to do or say? Something that has the power to hurt, to wound as badly as Spike’s being wounded? Something that has the power to destroy the wall in Harris’s eyes, and touch the heart that beats behind it?
Another peek at eyes as flat as any reflective surface and Spike realizes the power to touch Harris’s heart isn’t his--
head bowed like a penitent thick dark hair brushing Spike’s thighs that first swipe of tongue is pure sin those lips the back of that throat is so good so warm so there so Xander oh yes oh Xander
--and never will be.
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