Pairing: Spike/Xander
Fandom: Buffy
Rating: PG
Words: 657
Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com. If you spot a typo, please feel free to tell me in comments. I want you to!
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: Spike looks after his things.
Notes: Written for [info]ladyvirgo1956, who gave me the prompt "Spike watching Xander as he tries to help the Scoobies while they ignore him."



For Loyalty


by
Darkhavens


Spike stood quietly in the shadows of the Pierson family crypt and watched the Slayer's little band do their thing.

The witches were back to back firing off short-lived squibs of flame, torching anything dumb enough to get within three feet of them. It was a smart enough tactic, holding off the attack until Wondergirl could come to their aid.

The Slayer herself was in the thick of things, spinning and kicking and mouthing off, wasting so damn much energy. Any vamp with half a brain and the ability to wait a while could watch her wear herself out on the fledges and the back flips and the backchat, and then dive in for the kill before she knew what was happening.

His neck and back muscles tightened instinctively, waiting for the chip to kick in at the glorious image of her lying at his feet, bleeding out, begging for mercy. It didnít fire.

A flurry of movement at the corner of his eye drew his attention to the real reason he was here - the sidekick, who was currently pinned to the ground beneath a very hungry, dirt-smudged vampire. Spike watched for a while, ever aware of just how close some other vamp's teeth were to his property.

And, no mistake about it, Harris was his property. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer by any means, and he was stumbling about out there like a pup that hadn't yet grown into his feet, but he had good instincts, a hint of cunning and guile.

As Spike watched, Xander's struggles weakened and faded away to nothing. The idiot on top of him laughed victoriously and drew back to make a showy lunge for his jugular. The stake in his chest was an unwelcome surprise.

Playing dead when you had a grave-fresh fledge at your throat, on the off-chance that he'd watched the same bad movies as you had and couldn't resist the urge to grandstand before draining you dry - that took balls, and a convoluted way of thinking that reminded him of Dru, and wouldn't his princess get a kick out of that when she found out.

He always fell hardest for brunettes, Spike thought ruefully. Dru, with her mass of heavy ringlets and her addled way of looking at the world, who had stolen his heart while cutting him free of his soul. Then Angelus, who'd stepped in and taught him how to be a demon, a hunter, something - someone - to be feared. Who'd also taught him about the limits of his no longer mortal body.

And now Harris.

He was easy on the eyes, in a gangly puppy kind of way, all long limbs, tight arse and ever-widening shoulders; dark eyes and hair that had a tendency to curl when it got that bit too long. If Spike had his way - and he would, eventually - he'd keep that hair long and loose so he could bury his hands in it and use the locks like reins.

But it wasn't the looks or the cunning and guile that Spike really hungered after. It wasn't even the hint of animal instinct that never failed to pique his interest when it flashed in Harris's eyes.

What Spike really wanted, what he craved, was to have that boundless loyalty focussed solely on him. To see those eyes filled with an eagerness to please him, the need to make his sire proud - that was what kept Spike lurking in the shadows, making plans, and watching out for his property while the slayer did her usual song and dance, quite oblivious.

Pretty soon it would be time to stake his claim, do a bit of house-cleaning, tidy up loose ends, and then knock the grave dust of Sunnydale off his boots forever. And he'd be leaving with a hat trick of Slayers under his belt or he wouldn't be leaving at all.




The End




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