Written for Marguerite's first Flashficathon -- April 21, 2003 -- for Carolyn Claire.
Thanks to Mad Poetess for the beta and title, and to Byrne for the encouragement.
First S/X I ever wrote.
"Told you not to touch me."
"You weren't saying that last night," Xander pointed out. "Or the night before that, or the night before that."
"Different how? It's okay for us to fuck, but not okay for me to touch you when we aren't?"
Spike sighed in exasperation. "Yeah, pretty much."
Buffy's body crumpled on the ground, the smell of her... her insides so torn up that she...
Xander getting up off the couch threw Spike out of his reverie. "Fine," Xander said. "We'll just stay away from each other until the middle of the night, when you come crawling into my bed."
Bloody hell. "Xander..."
And Xander stopped, probably because it was the first time Spike had said his name since this had started. "What?" he asked, without turning around.
Spike got up, let his hand reach out and touch Xander's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, as his fingers traced their way up across the bare skin of Xander's neck, where the blood pulsed, so close.
"Yeah. Whatever. I should have known..."
"What?" Spike moved closer still, until his front was pressed up against Xander's back. His other arm slipped around Xander's waist, holding him. "Should have known what?"
"That you didn't really want," and the me was as loud as if it had actually been spoken, "this."
Spike leaned in, his mouth almost against Xander's neck when he said, "Does it feel like I don't want this?" He pushed himself more firmly against Xander's ass, knowing that the human wouldn't be able to mistake his erection for anything but what it was.
"Stop it," Xander said harshly, and wrenched himself away from Spike, striding across the living room and into the kitchen.
Sighing, Spike returned to the couch and rested his head in his hands. He wasn't even sure how any of this had happened, but there didn't seem to be any question of stopping it, not now.
Buffy's grave. Anya's grave. He and Xander, the ones left behind.
"What the fuck are we doing, Spike?" Xander's voice was low. He stood with both fists balled up on the countertop.
"I thought you teeny-boppers had a term for everything," Spike said, trying for humor. "Grief-induced rebound, maybe?"
"Yeah, that's what it is, all right." The tension in Xander's shoulders was clear to Spike from all the way across the room, and despite his own brooding - fuck, he was turning into the old man - he had to get up again and go to the boy.
Spike's hands on those broad shoulders again, rubbing lightly. "S'okay," he offered, and it was the biggest lie he'd spoken in ages.
"How is it okay?" Xander asked bitterly, his shoulders still tight beneath Spike's fingers. "They're dead, Spike. In what fucked-up, twisted world is that okay?"
The wave of black that threatened to crest over Spike's head every other minute made itself known again, a looming darkness that sure as hell made him want to just lie down and never get up again. If it hadn't been for Dawn, right after...
Her tearstained face, her hands clutching at his shirt. How he'd gone out into the yard for a smoke and a drink and eventually sat down, leaning against the big tree. How Xander had come out to tell him Dawn was asleep and he could go, only to find him drunk.
Xander saying to him, "This isn't the way to get over it," talking like he thought Spike should already understand that even through the haze. "This isn't what she would have wanted."
With hands gone rough, Spike turned Xander around and shoved him up against the countertop, thrusting his hips forward and pinning Xander between himself and the formica. There was nothing gentle or comforting about it, and for the first moment or two, nothing sexual. It was as if Spike was trying to prove to them, instinctively, that they were both real. "You think this is what she would have wanted?" he asked, repeating the words that echoed incessantly in his head.
"Screw you," Xander spat back at him.
"Been doing that," Spike pointed out.
"What are we doing?" Xander asked again, plaintively, anguish clear in his dark eyes.
"Other than fucking each other's brains out, you mean?"
A glint of humor, finally. "Yeah, other than that."
Spike's hands on Xander gentled then, sure fingers of his right hand moving to slide beneath Xander's shirt, warm human skin tantalizing him. "This, maybe?" he suggested, knuckling over Xander's taut nipple.
Xander gasped, just slightly. "Yeah."
His other hand was busy unfastening the front of Xander's jeans, grasping onto the hard cock that strained for his touch. "And this?"
Nodding, Xander leaned in closer, his breathing already heavy. "There's something else I want to do," he said hoarsely.
"Yeah?" Spike tilted his head to one side and looked at Xander thoughtfully.
A long moment when the only sounds in the room were Xander's breathing, the hum of the refrigerator, and the soft slick of Spike's hand on Xander's leaking cock.
"I want to kiss you," Xander said.
Spike blinked. "Haven't tried that yet."
"Don't you think that's, oh, I don't know, a little strange?" Xander's lips were closer to his; he could feel the warm ghost of air on his face as the boy spoke.
"Not really. Didn't think we were in this for the romance."
Xander's hands slid down to grab onto Spike's ass, and then his lips met Spike's and it was warm and wet and not what Spike had expected. None of this was.
They pulled back and Xander's expression was one of surprise, but underneath that was something else, a darkness that mirrored Spike's own.
"It's not the middle of the night," Xander said, even as his eyes flickered back to Spike's lips.
"No," Spike agreed, his fingers tightening on Xander's cock and stroking more firmly. And he knew that there were more than he could possibly count, but..."That a problem for you?"
"No," Xander said.
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