Non-con (well, I just gotta, don't I?)
Xander fans be warned that he's a bastard in this.
The Sunnydale hospital felt abandoned, though every now and then someone would walk by or peer out of a room like some troll under a bridge. Life still clung to Sunnydale, like all towns in the grip of tragedy. Life just found a way.
Spike tried to push the melancholy thoughts from his mind as he strode down the corridors, smelling the fragility of life and hope and thinking of other times, other evacuations.
Finally he reached a room that was lit up, smelling of recent activity and fresh disinfectant. Xander Harris sat up in the bed, flipping listlessly through a magazine. The white gauze over his eye brought out the dusky pallor of his sun-darkened skin.
He wore one of those flower-print hospital tunics. Spike stopped in the doorway, hands in his pockets, trying to come up with a good gibe about that. Something about how it wasn’t far off from his usual apparel. But he wasn’t back in top snark form, yet. Stupid soul buggered up the darndest things.
And then that one brown eye was fastened on him, pinning his soul to the wall, finding it unworthy.
Spike kicked the scuffed linoleum. “Wanted to see how you were doin’.”
The magazine hit the side-table with a defeated sound. “Well my career as a sharpshooter is dead. That was a joke. Depth perception, bleach boy.”
“I got it,” Spike said, without rancor. “Anything I could do?”
“Go back in time two days and talk us out of that attack or maybe, I don’t know, be quicker?”
Spike’s voice was a bare whisper. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, well sorry doesn’t cut it, blondie. We humans don’t grow things back.”
A silence filled the space after his words and the empty weight of the hospital seemed to settle around them. Xander heaved a sigh and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Come here.”
“Was that not English enough for you? Come here.”
As Spike walked closer Xander peered up at him. “They stuffed the socket full of cotton. Did you know that? An eye socket can collapse. They had to clean all the bits of destroyed eye out, too, scrape it empty. I was awake for that.”
“Wish I’d been faster, Xan. Shoulda been faster.”
“Kind of a slogan for you,” Xander tilted his head to give his good eye the advantage. “If you’d been faster I’d still be able to get a driver’s license without a special permit. If you’d been faster Buffy wouldn’t have died and this first evil wouldn’t have come at all. If you’d been faster, maybe you would have finished screwing my girlfriend before we caught you on camera.”
Spike flinched, and then the vulnerability bled out of his face. “Bleedin’ Hell. Aren’t we past that?”
“Oh I’m dwelling. Guess it’s a side-effect of the whole end-of-the-world sitting around alone in a hospital blues. I dwell. Like maybe if you’d been fast enough you would have just raped Buffy before she stopped you. Do you ever think of that?”
Spike stumbled back as though he’d been struck. He held up a hand. “You know what? This was a bad idea. All my love and that bollocks, carpenter boy. See you back at the house.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Think you are. Think I’ll be giving you your space to dwell or whatever it is you’re doing.” He backed toward the door.
Xander grabbed his wrist. His hand was hot, the skin rough from work and sweaty. “I’m not finished with you. Don’t you get that?”
Spike’s shoulders slumped. “What do you want me to say, Xander? I’m sorry? There’s a lot I’m sorry for, and I don’t think we have the time to go through the soddin’ list.”
Spike didn’t resist as Xander pulled him by his arm, though his eyes reflected wary confusion.
Xander held his wrist to his own chest, pressed against the soft, much-washed cotton of the hospital gown. “I want you to pay. I want you to suffer for what you’ve done.”
The corner of one lip lifted a little. “What part of getting my soul shoved in me like a hot poker up the arse do you think wasn’t suffering?”
Xander shrugged. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s a torment I can’t possibly imagine or something. Mostly, though, it’s lacking in the me being able to see it department.”
Spike bit his lip and then looked away. “What do you want?”
Xander let go of his wrist, a brittle anger growing inside him in response to the calm resignation in Spike’s voice. He pushed Spike’s chest, making the vampire step back. “Where’s your fight, Spike? No chip now. Are you going to fight me this time?”
“Don’t want to fight you. Same side, aren’t we?”
“Oh no. We might fight the same foes, but you and me, we have NEVER been on the same side.” He stepped past Spike and shoved him hard toward the bed.
It squeaked and slid a little on the floor as Spike hit against it.
“You think this is going to help? It’s never enough, mate. Listen to the formerly evil: Vengeance is as cold and unsatisfying as the piss you call beer.”
“And yet, I’m still willing to give it a go. Take off your clothes.”
“Ain’t that a mite cliché?”
“Go with the classics. Besides, you want to have something to wear out of here, don’t you?” Xander twisted a handful of black material in his fist.
Spike squirmed out of his shirt. “Fine. Fine. Don’t rip it. Fuck, I’ve only got two of these left.”
Xander traced the faint scars on Spike’s chest. Whorls of the First’s torture on top of self-inflicted scratches and who knew how many other injuries, sunk into smooth flesh, forgotten to time. How long before this chest would return to a perfection Xander’s skin would never know again? His hand, dark against that pale expanse, showed small nicks and little scars from work, from play, hell, one was from Willow’s fingernails, years ago when they’d played at slap-fighting.
Spike shifted uneasily under Xander’s examination, shimmying out of his jeans and boots and leaving them where they fell at his feet. “There. That’s all gone, then. Here I am, as nature made me.
“Shut up, Spike,” Xander said, continuing to inspect his chest. “Lie back. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Well I must say you are a very obliging torturer…”
“I said shut up.” Xander lifted his hand at last from Spike. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.” His voice was quiet and without malice, which was the most frightening thing about it.
“All right.” Spike carefully lifted himself fully onto the bed and settled back against the pillow. “We’ll play it your way. C’mon. Show me what you think you can do. Won’t be anything that hasn’t been done before.”
“Have you lost an eye before?”
Spike’s brow wrinkled as he started to think about it and Xander jabbed his thumb.
They struggled, Xander climbing onto the bed and leaning all his weight, his thumb pressing hard into Spike’s right eye. It was firmer than he’d thought it would feel, not popping as his had, no loud sound and horror, just a hard-boiled-egg feeling. Huh. Poking out an eye was harder than Caleb made it seem.
“Stop! Xan, stop or I’ll fuckin’ hurt you! I swear!” Spike threw Xander off of him. He sent the side-table and an IV-stand crashing.
Spike sat up, his right eye blood-shot, bleary, tears streaming down his face. He blinked and held his hand up in front of his face.
Xander felt his back, his bare ass where it had hit the fallen stand hard. “Thought we were on the same page here, Spikey.”
“You’re raving mad. I’m leaving.”
Fury erupted in Xander, pulling the blood from his skin and adding a red haze to his vision. He slammed into the vampire with a roar, punching, kicking, clawing and biting when he found flesh under his teeth or nails.
“Xan! Xan! Stop!” Spike twisted, grabbing for Xander’s arms, his shoulders, his sides, trying to hold the boy off of him without hurting him again.
“NO.” Xander ended up straddling Spike’s chest. Beneath his hospital gown, bare flesh lay against bare flesh, anger-hot against dead-cold. He slipped back, feeling his balls catch against the friction. “No, Spike. You stop. Stop getting away with murder. Literally. Stop being weak and worthless and dead. Can you stop? Can you?”
Spike arched his throat as though in offering, his head back, eyes wet and unseeing, one clear and blue, one covered in a fine mesh of red lines like cracked glaze. Already a black crescent was forming under it. Xander ground his hips down. It was meant more as a way to hurt the vampire, to press him more into the gritty floor, but it sent an unexpected thrill up his spine. Anger met lust and got on with it like two horny teenagers in a black out. Xander slowed his motions, rubbing himself off on the flat stomach, feeling the tickle of hair, the soft cock, then sinking down, pressing between legs.
“Come on, Spike. Stop holding out on me. Let me see what so special about you, what lets you walk away scot-free while I get to wear the scars.”
Spike shook his head, rocking the back of his skull on the linoleum. “Can’t tell you. Don’t know. Scars are there, though. I feel them, inside.”
This, Xander thought, this was what he had hoped it would feel like, his thumb sliding neatly into a socket like his dick sinking into tight flesh that resisted so deliciously and then gave, dragging sensation through him.
Century-old vampire or not, there was a hitched breath, a tension that was satisfyingly humiliated. Xander watched his face very closely, taking more pleasure in the tears leaking from tightly-pressed eyelids almost than he did from the rich, slick feeling of blood gliding over his cock. Deeper and deeper, he wanted to feel he’d beaten his way straight through to the floor. His hips jolted against Spike’s pelvis on each down-stroke. They slid along the floor slowly, irritatingly, until Spike’s head fetched up against the wall and he pressed his palms to it, trying to save himself from beating against it.
“Bastard,” Xander pounded in to him. He floundered a moment, reaching to snatch one of those bracing hands away, but the slight push back was so good, he let it slide. He used his dick to beat him. It was enough.
And never enough. He grunted and panted, unflattering sounds joining the slap and slide of flesh in the unnatural quiet. A whine choked off in his throat, his orgasm squeezed from him like an escaping parasite, taking a chunk of fury with him. Tears stung his eye, burned in the empty socket where tear ducts still tried to lubricate what wasn’t there.
He pulled free, cum still dribbling from the end of his softening, gore-slicked dick. He picked up the IV stand and with the last of his strength swung it into Spike’s stomach, picked it up and swung again. It felt made of lead. His legs were made of paste. He swung again and then fell, with the metal stand, on top of the vampire, elbow pressed hard into ribs that moved back and forth with jerky breaths.
Spike’s eyes were still closed tightly, his head still back, offering his throat. Exhausted, Xander stretched over him, tilted his head and bit, as hard as he could, over the adam’s apple. He felt a little crunch of cartilage and a whimper that vibrated through his teeth. Blood was a metallic tinge over the clammy skin. He let his head fall, then, to Spike’s shoulder, one good eye staring at the even marks left by his teeth. “Look at that. You were right, dead-boy. It’s not enough.”
For a long, cold hour they were as two dead bodies thrown together, like cord wood on the dusty floor of a nearly abandoned hospital. Some footsteps squeaked by down the hall, once, and didn’t look in. Whoever it was –looter or hold-out employee – Xander was grateful they didn’t look in to see him, ass (and nearly whole body) hanging out of a torn and hiked up paper gown, the flotsam of his own wrath.
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