I got a prompt for some Xangel, from the oh-so-Canadian [info]vampirellabites. But Spander got stuck in my head, wouldn't let me write the Xangel till I wrote this.

Pairing: Spike/Xander (pre)slash
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Joss can get a spork and eat me.
Concrit/Feedback: Rocks out with its cock out.
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Post-NFA by five years.
Summary: This is totally not the pairing [info]vampirellabites asked for, but her lyrics prompt (Bush's Mouth) inspired it. Nine hundred words.



The Longest Kiss


by
Beetle


Spike stalks out of the diner, pitches his cigarette into the gutter and glances up at the moon.

He shrugs, hunches his shoulders and walks off. Seconds later, Harris is right beside him, keeping pace easily.

Yet another reminder of how Spike’s . . . diminished, since the bloody shanshu.

“Spike--”

“Told you to fuck off, Harris.”

“I asked you a question and I want an answer. I’ll beat it out of you, if I have to.”

Spike regards the man next to him: eye-patch slightly askew, face gaunt and flushed, body muscled from years of fighting and hard living. “You couldn’t take me, even now.”

The next thing Spike knows, he’s being swung into the wall of some condemned fire-trap. His face connects with the crumbly brick hard enough to bloody his nose and Harris’s body driving the breath right out of him.

When Harris hauls him around, the only thing Spike can think is: Huh. He really does look like a bloody pirate.

“Damnit, I meant what I said back there!” Harris is panting like he’s just run a 10k. “I. Love. You.” Each word is punctuated by a light slam.

Spike sneers, though doing so hurts his face. “Well, bully for you, wanker.”

Harris slams him for the fifth time.

“Spike--” his voice cracks and he hangs his head for a moment. Even a year ago, Spike knows, he would’ve already knee-capped the git; left him to bleed on the sidewalk and gone on his way without a single glance back.

Guess no one’s who they used to be, he thinks ruefully.

“--sometimes I fucking hate you,” Harris is saying quietly.

Spike laughs because yeah, hate’s always come easy between them, but this new thing--there’s nothing easy about it. “You love me, you hate me--make up your sodding mi--”

Nope. There’s nothing easy about Harris’s mouth suddenly covering his own, hard enough and hungry enough that Spike knows he’ll have bruises come morning;

nothing easy about Harris sliding down Spike’s body--a slightly pained grunt when his knees hit the pavement;

nothing easy about being this hard, this fast for Harris of all people . . . feeling Harris’s warm, wet mouth close around him, a surprisingly talented tongue going straight to that spot, just below the tip of Spike’s cock--the one that always sends him over the edge and always will;

nothing easy about the high, despairing sound ripped from Spike’s throat when Harris swallows and swallows around him, gripping Spike’s hips tight enough to leave another set of bruises . . . and it’s good, so bloody good it hurts.

No, the only easy thing is leaning against the the damp wall, concentrating on each jagged breath and ignoring the warm face pressed into the hollow of his hip.

Lyrics from a song Spike hasn’t heard in years drift through his head as he tries not to collapse on top of Harris:

Nothing hurts like your mouth. . . .

Stroking the thick, dark hair--shot through with grey already--is another easy thing, but Spike stops himself. Of all the acts that have transpired in the past few minutes, he instinctively knows an act of tenderness is the only act that has the power to undo him completely.

“You don’t ever do that,” he says, his voice raw and angry. “For all you know, I could have God-only-knows-what-all, and you’d have just given yourself a nice dose of the same, you silly twat.”

Harris doesn’t look up, doesn’t so much as twitch in acknowledgement, but his face is wet. From sweat, not tears, Spike tells himself. After a silent minute, he succumbs to temptation, embraces his own destruction.

Harris’s hair is damp, and softer than it has any right to be. His voice, when he speaks, is low and sure. Sure of Spike in a way no one has ever been:

“I trust you.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know anything!” Spike snaps. He can feel Harris’s smile on his hip.

“I know that I love you.”

And Spike’s afraid to contradict him, afraid Harris’ll prove him wrong.

“I think . . . I know you love me, too, Spike.” When Harris looks up at him, there are no tears in his dark eye. “If you run away from this, you’ll break us both.”

“You’re talkin’ nonsense.” Spike leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes; sees Buffy, dead at the foot of Glory’s tower.

Sees a troll in the rainy alley behind the Hyperion land a lucky blow . . . the surprise in Angel’s eyes had turned to acceptance . . . then to dust.

Spike shakes his head, tears leaking down his face. “I’m through takin’ up with heroes, mate. I’m done.”

“I love you,” Harris says again, like his love’s some sort of weapon. Maybe it would’ve been . . . before. But any moment now, Spike’ll throw Harris’s ridiculous love away like the trash it is and stalk off.

The moon is very big in the sky, unusually bright. That’s the only reason Spike looks down, meets the gaze that’s been waiting for him. Harris grins, a flash of silvery-white in the moonlight, and stands up unsteadily. “Love you so much.”

When he kisses Spike this time, it’s tentative and unbearably sweet. It breaks Spike instantly, but goes on forever.

Harris tastes like blood and come and Spike and danger and--and--

Any moment, now. . . .




The End





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