Summary: Because if he does, he's going to a) have to drive and b) have a very cranky vampire who's going to want a little reciprocation. Which Xander will be unable to do, see A.
A/N: For nomelon
How To Stay Sane In Traffic
"You lift your hand one more time and so help me, Spike, I will cut it off." There aren't many times Xander sounds genuinely homicidal. It's something that annoys him, most of the time, since people end up wanting to ruffle his hair or pat his head or something humiliating and condescending when he usually tries. This time, however, he's pretty damned sure that he got the inflection right, or something, because Spike has stopped dead with his hand hovering inches above the horn.
"Wasn't gonna do nothing."
"Oh, yes, because suddenly you're not pouting like a sullen fourteen year old boy? Said fourteen year old boys that just love to lay on the horn like it's going to actually do something? Like, say, I don't know, make the cars magically vanish!"
Instead of biting back a reply, Spike tilts his chin up and tugs at the skin underneath, looking thoughtful. "Huh. You know, I'm pretty sure Monroe -- "
"Tara! And no, she didn't, whatever it is."
" -- Monroe had a spell to clear the path -- "
"That was clear the air, Spike, clear the air."
" -- that maybe we could use here, see if we can shift your bloody arse, you stupid fuck. A bit, anyway."
Spike's always had the happy ability to go from genial and charming to homicidal maniac, then slide right back like he's done nothing wrong. Xander doesn't have that ability. He wishes like hell he did, because if so, he'd probably say the things bubbling around in his brain.
"Kill me," is what comes out instead.
"Oh, like you should talk, anyway." Spike shifts in his seat like a little kid who won't admit he needs to go potty. It's incredibly adorable, under normal circumstances. Now it just makes Xander want to snarl because he knows what it means. "Stuck out here on the sodding highway, no quickie marts in sight and me, me stuck here with a stupid git like you while I'm out of bloody cigs!"
"My heart bleeds buttermilk," Xander snaps.
If Spike had cigarettes, sad as it is to say, Xander would've bummed one. He's not a big smoker, lighting up when he's with the guys on break, maybe, or out at the bar. He doesn't need it, the way Richard at work does, sneaking out every twenty or thirty minutes for a quick puff or two. But it's nice. It's something to do with your hands and mouth, something that isn't bitching about how hot it is, concrete baked to a nice oven temperature despite it being at night, radiating heat through a car not really built for a hundred and twenty past sunset, stuck in a long line of cars that beam their highs no matter there's no where to go, nothing new and different to look at, except the back of the car in front of you, the head that bobs and weaves and shouts all the words you're saying -- or thinking -- caught in a traffic jam from hell, because this is California and there's always a traffic jam and --
"Aren't you the clever one," Spike purrs, working the ball of his hand down between Xander's legs like this is something they do all the time. "See, the thing about smoking is that after a while, s'not the nicotine. Not for me, anyway -- dead, after all. It's holding it in your hands." Those same hands curl sure and steady, cupping the shape of him easily. "It's breathing it in, smelling it, bitter and -- and aggravating, so close you can taste it without ever letting your tongue touch it at all."
Spike's eyes are half-closed, head back as inhales slowly. He looks washed out and dull in the artificially illuminated night. Except when his eyes gradually lift up, head turning and body canting in one smooth, graceful move that ends with his face inches from Xander's, hand still moving absently between Xander's thighs, then it's porn.
"But when you do taste it, pet, when you finally let it touch down on your tongue, lips closing soft and sweet around the butt of it, that's the best part. Hand to mouth to mouth to hand, over and over. That's what we need."
The steady hooooooooonk of some asshole driver swallows up the clickclickclick of Xander's zipper going down, the sharp gasp he makes when Spike's head drops, mouth startlingly cool as he slides down the length of him without even a hitch.
"Um," he says, thin and trying not to laugh. "We, um. We're doing this. Here?"
Spike pulls off long enough to show wet lips that are pillow-smooth against Xander's skin, twisted into a smirk. "Car in front of you's moving."
"This is very dangerous!" he says, even as he carefully shifts his weight and crunches forward a scant half a foot. "This is -- we can be arrested! We can be -- oh, oh, my god, yes, please."
The angle's miserable. Xander knows that, but still he's nudging firm and sure into the back of Spike's throat, Spike, who's humming contentedly as he works lips and tongue, fingers carding over Xander's balls, as satisfied as any junkie when getting their fix.
Taking a deep breath, Xander sets himself more firmly in the seat -- left foot hovering over the brake just in case -- and starts up a mantra. With every honk or beep it's don't come, oh god, don't come, jesus, that's good, don't come.
Because if he does, he's going to to a) have to drive and b) have a very cranky vampire who's going to want a little reciprocation. Which Xander will be unable to do, see A.
Or maybe... hm.
Rolling his hips so his cock slides even deeper into Spike's mouth just to make Spike moan happily, Xander shifts and stretches and finally get's a hand on Spike's cock, squeezing it through his jeans. "Once we're driving again, you're going to jack off for me. Okay?"
Spike just breathes out a moan, sucking slow and steady, while around them the rest of the world curses the never ending line of cars.