Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon. I only play with them.
Notes: Spike brings Xander to a philosophical revelation.
A bit of background: George Berkeley, philosopher and bishop of Cloyne, (born March 12, 1685) espoused the doctrine of anti-materialism, claiming that all material objects were illusory, true reality existing only in the mind of God. James Boswell and Dr. Samuel Johnson were once discussing the Bishop's philosophy. Boswell said he did not believe in it, but he lacked the logic to refute it. Dr. Johnson kicked a stone in the street and said, "Thus I refute Berkeley,"
Wearing Your Proofs on the Skin
“Spike. You home?”
Xander pocketed his keys and nudged the door closed with his foot.
The apartment was thick with the kind of silence you get when nothing living is in the space. No wait. When Spike was there, nothing living was in the space. But silence and Spike—nah, never the twain shall meet.
He stood in the centre of the living room and listened.
Before the Era of Spike, Xander used to have periods of quiet time. Long, luxurious stretches when he was alone with his thoughts. Not that he ever thought of anything particularly intelligent. Just things like, I wonder if Luke got a boner when he kissed Leia and then when he found out she was his sister and remembered what he’d thought when her lips landed on his and God she was hot in that metal bra thing and Han Solo was standing right behind her and watching and man, did he look great in those tight pants and what would have happened if Han got a boner too, and it would really, really show in those pants and God Han Solo was unbelievably hot for a guy and, shit, not going there....” Stuff like that.
But that all ended with Spike offloaded onto him, tied up in his barca lounger, and sitting there in his tight, tight jeans with the bulge showing which Xander couldn’t seem to take his eyes off, even though Spike could see and gave him endless grief about. Yap, yap, yap. “Harris. Oi. Pay attention. You want some of this? You know you’re gagging for it.” And Spike would leer and thrust his hips up, stretch his hand over as far as he could to stroke the outline of what was straining the fabric so it showed even more. “Hey doughnut boy, come closer. I’ve got something nice and sweet here for you.” And he’d wiggle his eyebrows obscenely and Xander would have to go into the bathroom to get away from the constant innuendo.
Sometimes he’d stay there for a while and take care of whatever came up. But even when he had a shower and lathered himself up with Tropical Fruit shower gel until he was foamy white from head to foot, Spike still knew what he was doing in there. Xander would get fully dressed before he left the bathroom—it didn’t bear thinking about, going out with just a towel round his waist, knowing the kinds of comments he’d get—even then, Spike would look at him with a smirk that completely redefined the word and lick his lips slowly until Xander had to wrench his eyes away as if they’d got glued to the sight of that pink tongue with its pointy tip that could... And he’d clear his throat gruffly to cover the groan that almost escaped and turn up the volume on the TV until he couldn’t hear the dirty things coming out of Spike’s mouth.
He couldn’t escape at bedtime either. He’d make sure the knots were tight, no chance of Spike wiggling out in the middle of the night to do unspeakable things to him, and then settle under the quilt with a sigh, drifting down into sleep. After a few minutes, it would all start up again. Whispered words in the dark, coiling their way into his ears, making them burn with embarrassment and something else that made him so hard, even the light friction of the sheet over his cock threatened to make him come.
And that was only the start. Once the Big Breakthrough had happened—Xander finally thought, fuckit, let’s see what it’s all about and he’d grabbed Spike by the sides of the head and kissed him so hard the vampire had grunted with surprise—which led to a whole lot of what it’s all about, every which way it was possible to get about it, and as often as possible—things only got noisier. He’d come home from work and hear the stereo blasting way as he walked into foyer of the apartment building. He’d open the door and there would be an ecstatic air-guitar-punk-god whaling away on imaginary strings, head flung back, neck corded and mouth pulled open in a rictus of savage joy.
So, Spike and silence. Not so much.
Which made it all the more surprising when he pushed open the bedroom door and found Spike inside, naked and lying on the bed, looking up at him with impish eyes. The fact that he was holding a...Xander wasn’t sure what it was called...but it looked kind of dangerous and strangely exciting.
“Get yer kit off, pet. I’ve got something for you.” Spike was already hard and he stroked his cock in long sensuous curves, over the head, down the shaft, cupping the balls and then up the underside until the hand palmed the head again. Clearly there was a love affair of long duration going on between that cock and that hand.
Xander had lost track of...well, everything really. Who he was, why he was here, did the universe have meaning? His whole body had become one little beady point of consciousness, mesmerized by those pale fingers and that long, thick, hard.... He swallowed convulsively, and let his eyes drift to the black object in Spike’s other hand. A short handle and long strands of soft leather, falling over a muscular thigh. Such a pretty contrast. Spike and leather. Made for each other.
Some part of Xander’s brain that had retained a fingernail hook into reality stirred and sent a message to his speech centre. A query. What is that thing? A splodge of light flickered and he opened his mouth.
Lightning flashes spread like a summer storm seen from outer space.
Come on, guys, pull together. He needs to know. Broca? Get with it. Interrogative. Let’s have a verb. Give us a noun.
“Ummm,” Lick of dry lips. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand, Spike?”
“What? This?” Spike’s face was the picture of innocence, but a wicked hand circled the cock and gave it two languorous strokes, making a bead of pre-come swell out of the tip.
Medulla oblongata to nervous system: All blood south, stat. And fuck off, Broca. Busy here.
Broca to MO: Hey, reptile brain, I think I should remind you that the pen is mightier than the sword. Something you should keep in what’s loosely called your mind. It’s not all about animal instincts. What? It’s a metaphor, you slavering git. Get it? Words are more powerful...oh, never mind. Just give me enough time to get a question out.
Xander swallowed and cleared his throat. “Not that. The other thing. The black whippy looking thing. What’s that for?” His body seemed to have a mind of its own. He’d toed his work boots off, scuffed out of his socks, his shirt was lying crumpled on the floor and pants were half way down his legs. He stared at Spike in an enthralled trance as he kicked his jeans into a corner.
Spike sat up, skin sliding silkily over tight muscles. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to shoot a lustful blue gleam from under the dark fringe of eyelashes.
“C’mere, luv. We’re going to play doctor.” Spike crooked his finger, pulling Xander toward him by sheer force of smirk. He wove an arm round his waist and swung him onto the bed beside him, pushing him face down on the quilt. Xander tensed and made as if to rise.
“Relax, pet. You’re going to like this,” Spike said in a voice that melted into Xander’s mind like thick dark sweet sin. “I’m just going to...” But the rest of his words vanished into nonsense syllables as Xander felt the first, tantalizing strokes of leather across his ass. Everything else dissolved and his body woke up in a whole new world of blazing sensation.
The last thing left echoing in his mind before it shut down for the duration was Spike’s voice, whispering in his ear.
“Here’s to you, Dr. Johnson.”
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