Rating: R
Disclaimer: Mine, cuz I’m fine.
Concrit/Feedback: Aw, you shouldn’t have! *gestures impatiently for more*
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Written for the [info]spander132 moodring prompt: restless. No spoilers, and plot? What plot? Possible squick-factor, definite schmoop-factor.
Summary: Restless: 1. Affording little or no rest; disturbed: a restless sleep. 2. Unable or unwilling to rest. 3. Uneasy; impatient; unquiet; anticipatory. . . .
So my first Mpreg/badfic. At least . . . this is my first on-purpose badfic, hee!
*bows*
*apologizes*



Restless


by
Beetle


“Sweetheart?”

Ignore The Voice and it will go away, Spike thinks hopefully; his own personal mantra as he squinches his eyes shut even tighter, burrowing deeper into bed and sleep.

But Xander keeps trying, keeps wielding The Voice like a pro. It soon carries a too-familiar note of franticness. “Spike? Baby, I need you to wake up. . . .”

The Voice quavers up into a pouty, precious whine on that last word.

Not so long ago, this Voice had simultaneously made Spike hard and melted him into a puddle of solicitous goo. Now, in the moons since the disastrous and never-mentioned Nutella-and-Turkey-Bacon Run, it inspires caution and dread that makes him shudder, despite his best efforts at playing possum.

“Sweetie?” Poke-poke-poke, on the back of Spike’s head, which wrings a frustrated growl from him. Faint shades of annoyance and accusation color The Voice, now. “I know you’re awake, William.”

Spike cringes, and bites back the first bit of snark that comes to mind and lips--Well, I bloody well am, now!--in an effort not to start yet another screaming-crying-guilt fest. “Awake? Not even remotely, love, and you shouldn’t be, either. G’ back to sleep, yeah?”

A nervous laugh, then the mattress shifts as Xander sits up with a groan. “Uh, kinda can’t, Big Bad.”

“Why in sodding hell not, dearest?” Spike’s gentlest tone, but the words are clipped, even to his own tired ears. He sighs and tries again. “Need your rest, don’t you, pet?”

“Yeah, but . . . Spike--” Xander places a trembly hand on Spike’s arm; the time-honored precursor to announcements that don’t go over well.

But whatever it is, Spike doesn’t care. Not one bit.

Just for few more hours, that’s all I need, damnit . . . few . . . more. . . .

“Spike . . . it’s time. . . .”

“Huhzzzz?” He’s already officially on his way back to dream-land--and such a lovely, welcoming land it is--and he’s not leaving again till well after noon.

Suddenly the hand on his arm tightens viciously, jagged, bitten nails digging in like claws.

“Damnit, Xander!” Spike bolts up out of bed, yelping and nearly trips over his own boots. Turning on the bedside lamp confirms that his arm is sporting two bloody digs and two deep scratches. Nothing like the sting of healing flesh to send one frolicking back to sleep. “What the bloody hell’d you do that for?!”

Xander’s watching him from a nest of rumpled sheets, discarded pillows and various items of clothing. Dark, damp, disheveled hair hangs in huge, wet dark eyes, but Spike won't be so easily manipulated--not anymore. “I didn’t mean it!”

“The hell you didn’t!”

Xander’s lower lip quivers and tears spill over.

Cue the insta-guilt.

Spike’s sitting on the bed, pulling a tokenly resistant Xander into his arms and making well-practiced shushing and tutting noises in record time.

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to snap at you, love. . . .”

“Yes, you did! You’re yelling at me even though it’s your fault that I’m like this, and--ow! Owwieowwieowwieowwieowww,” Xander moans, taking quick, shallow breaths, and trying to double over and around a stomach roughly the size of Panama. “OhGodpleeeasecallWillow‘causeitreallyreallyhurtsohSpikeohGod!”

The labor pain passes in a few seconds, but Xander bursts into fresh tears, pleading and clutching at Spike with a scary-strong, expectant-mother death-grip. "They can't get any worse than that, right, Spike? That was the worst of it, right? 'Cause if not, I--I don't think I wanna do this, anymore--"

“When you said time, you meant time. . . .” Spike manages through numb lips. He's awake, but still five steps behind and rubbing Xander’s back. Xander snuffles and grumbles something, that’s muffled by Spike’s t-shirt.

“What was that, love?”

Xander pulls away just enough to glare. “I said, yeah, you’re about to be a daddy, you jerk. Like it or not.” Tiny, scared, chagrined--yes, still chagrined after nine-plus months--voice. It’s that frightened voice, and the vulnerable, accusing gaze, that really drives home for Spike their impending parenthood. More than the words had, more than painting the nursery had, more than seeing the sonograms had. . . .

More, even, than he and Xander falling all over each other and acting like complete pillocks every time little Harris-Betancourt decided to practice for future footie matches.

Havin’ a baby, Spike thinks. Xander’s still glaring at him; pale, puffy, petrified . . . and beautiful. With a flash of prescience, Spike knows the baby’ll have the same big, dark eyes.

“Like it, pet. Love it and you.”

As the accusation fades, the vulnerability increases. "You really mean it?"

Spike nods and brushes away the tears with steady fingers and kisses Xander reassuringly. It's a rare moment of tranquility before the pandemonium starts for real. “We're havin' a baby . . . well, bloody hell.”




The End





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