Who Wants to Live Forever
Xander figured he had lived every post-binge hangover cliché in the book. He had woken up in strange towns, in strange cars, in strange girls. He had woken up in jail with some other drunk drooling on his shoes. He had woken up lying in the bathtub, where he had apparently decided it was more efficient to remain in the event of vomiting. He thought he had had every weird experience. But Xander had never woken up with a naked male vampire draped across his own equally naked backside.
The chill across his back was what had woken him. His brain was still slow with the alcohol, and Xander achingly realized that he needed another few hours of sleep before he could really sober up and embrace his spanking new hangover. But his back was so freezing cold, he felt around for a minute trying to locate himself, thinking he might have gotten himself locked in a refrigerator or something. But no, he focused on the wall in front of him, recognized the bottom torn edge of his U2 poster. He was home. In his own bed. With a block of ice. Then with a start, Xander’s numbed nerves told him that the block of ice had a hand. On his hip. He looked down and saw long, strong, elegant but decidedly male fingers. Translucent white skin. Holy fuck. Black. Fingernail. Polish.
“Spike.” Xander arched away from the chilly skin. He reached down and pushed the hand off his hip. “Fuck, Spike. Wake up. Major wiggins here, guy.” Xander could feel the beginnings of panic working in the queasy lining of his stomach. He suddenly desperately needed to get Spike’s body, his naked body, far away from him. Behind him, he felt Spike stir. Unbelievably, the hand came up again, rested on his hip. With growing horror Xander felt cool soft lips gently press a kiss onto the back of his neck. “No.” he whispered.
“GAH!” Xander simultaneously leapt forward off the bed and swung wildly back at Spike. “What the fuck Spike! Get your frigging clammy hands off me.” Xander stood staring down at the bed, weaving with alcohol-confusion and panic-adrenalin. Spike lay on the bed with the look of sleep still in his eyes. His hair stuck up at all angles. His mouth looked red and swollen. His completely utterly naked body was sprawled across the comforter. And there was blood. Xander gasped for air, found himself breathing hard as he took in the sight before him. There was blood everywhere. Xander fell against the wall. Blood all over his beige, and now also maroon, comforter. Blood all over Spike’s thighs, his belly, his arm and his hand. Xander grabbed his own throat wildly searching for the puncture wounds.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME YOU ASSHOLE!” he screamed.
Spike stiffened and sat up. His eyes widened and quickly made the journey from confusion to comprehension to panic. He jumped up off the bed and approached Xander, one hand reaching towards him.
“Xander, wait, Xander think. I didn’t do anything to you Xan, remember?” He motioned towards Xander’s own naked body with a suggestive little smirk. “Remember?” he chuckled. “C’mon Xan…” He took another half step towards him.
“NO!” Xander tried to back further into the wall. Then he registered Spike’s gesture, and looked down at his own naked torso. At the blood coating his belly and half-erect cock. Back at Spike’s bloody thighs. Through a grisly, grim fog he suddenly saw those thighs, this blood, as he pushed his cock…”AAAAH FUCK! NO! FUCK!” Xander backed into the wall and covered his eyes. Nausea and horror and shaking fear and his hands could not block the images now as he saw it, saw himself, saw himself fucking Spike. “GOD. CHRIST. GOD. FUCK.” Xander bent over writhing away from it and suddenly his body could not hold this, could not bear this and he bolted for the bathroom to hurl this poison out of himself.
Spike stood stock-still and waited for his brain to catch up with what had just happened. He knew this behavior. Long ago, a small blonde girl with great green eyes, “Evil, soulless thing!” trying to claw herself back to life. Her nails digging deep rivulets into his heart in the process. He hadn’t been able to save her. And even before that, a lost girl singing to the stars, begging him to bury the pain, bury it with more pain and blood. He hadn’t been able to save her either. Dust. Dust. And dust. But this was his friend, Xander. His friend. Not some otherworldly fiend. Not a mythical hero. His friend. Just an ordinary human. Who for no fucking good reason had dragged him out of the dark. Teased joy and meaning back into his pathetic unlife. Who had had a bit too much to drink last night and Spike had let him, let him lose control because stupid stupid Spike, love's greatest bitch, still thought someone could love him. And Spike felt the euphoric fantasy bleed from him to the floor. Saw the last evening replay, and in his mind's eye he saw Xander again, obviously blind drunk and confused, saw himself eagerly responding. Stupid. Irresponsible. Pillock. Wanker. Bloody. Bloody. Hell. With shaking angry hands Spike jerked his clothes over his bloody body. Yanked the stained sheets and comforter off the bed, and shoved them in a hamper. He could hear Xander retching in the bathroom through it all. By the time Spike had replaced the sheets, making a mental vow to replace the ruined comforter, he could hear water running and figured Xander was over the worst of it. Right then. Time for Spike to stand up and take it on the chin. He held his head against the door and rapped softly.
“Xander?” He rapped again, “Ya still in one piece in there?”
A long, long pause. Then, “Yeah.”
“Ya gonna come out now?”
Another long pause. “I don’t think so.”
“Ya wanna talk through the door then?”
There was an even greater silence. Spike’s preternatural hearing picked up Xander standing from his kneeling position before the toilet, the sound of a pace and turn around the bathroom. Then the hollow sound of a toilet seat going down and a man sitting on it.
“Just go. The Fuck. Away.”
Spike knew how to Fuck Off. When you are an expert at the art of Fuck Up, you very soon learn the attendant and equally useful skill of Fuck Off. Spike had actually become such an adept at Fuck Off that he knew all the phases and various levels of Fucking Off. Level One, generally used directly after uttering pithy and scathing but true comments at Humans-Who-Slay, was merely getting out of reach and waiting a decent interval for the sting to subside before dashing in again. Level Two, useful when one had been caught red handed with demon eggs, or Humans-Who-Slay’s girlfriends, involved staying far away, preferably haunting only demon bars like Willy’s, until gossip informed him that the furore had died down a bit. Level Three, the one Spike felt he had need of this time, meant becoming inaccessible and preferably mysteriously missing. Spike had found this could be accomplished if he kept himself in the oldest part of the oldest cemetery. Where no live thing visited to feed the dead things, which had long since vacated. There were a couple of mausoleums there, which were still standing enough to keep out the sun and any demons that might lose their way and stumble by. Spike had stashed rudimentary supplies in them and was relieved to find that one still had the stash un-pilfered. He’d have to find a way to pick up blood, he supposed. Spike was trying to hope against hope. He was trying to think that this was still a Level Three Fuck Off, that he hadn’t gone to the last one, Level Four; Fuck Off and Die. He had only been to that level once before, and it had only been ameliorated by the acquisition of a soul. Spike doubted he had another rabbit like that in his hat.
By the time he had tramped to this end of town, Spike had run the entire evening over in his mind again and discovered that it was, as he had expected, all his fault. He couldn’t think of exactly when he had first let the touching be more than just a slap on the back. Maybe it was the fact that Xander had offered him comfort, had shown him compassion, emotions so rare to the vampire that they went straight to his head like a drug. And yes, he leant into Xander’s touch too much. And yes, he craved that busom-buddie hug and heartfelt smile more than he ought too. But it was water to his drought and he hadn’t been able to resist. But he should have resisted, Spike told himself angrily. He had been down this road with Buffy and knew that humans did things like this to themselves. Humans starved themselves, and cut themselves with knives, and kept themselves from affection. Humans hurt themselves sometimes. And their friends stopped them. Their friends didn’t say, “here buddy, let me sharpen that knife for you,” or “sure Buffy, I can make those handcuffs a little tighter. “ or “yeah Xander, fuck me fuck me.” Spike sat in the crypt and waited and prayed and waited and hoped that he hadn’t lost his friend.
Xander sat on the toilet with his head in his hands and tried to find a way out of the mental quagmire he was in. He had, by now, recalled the entire evening. Xander drank enough to damage his brain, but the part that still worked remembered everything perfectly. He just couldn’t think at what point his libido had taken over and driven him off this cliff. Xander had not had a lot of close male friends, human or otherwise. Actually his last closest friend had been Jesse. It still made Xander angry to the point of tears that Jesse had had to die when Angel and Darla and Drusilla and Spike had made it abundantly clear that elements of the host remained in all vampires. He still thought something could have been done. Something should have been done. They hadn’t destroyed Oz when they’d discovered his problem. (Not that Xander could bear the thought of Oz destroyed any more than Jesse.) Then when Angel went all Angelusy and Willow finally restored his soul, Xander thought, “Hey! Why him and not our friend?” Not that he blamed Willow. But still it made him sad. He missed his buddy. And on some weird metaphysical level, (Whoa Harris big word! ) Spike reminded him of Jesse. Maybe what Jesse could have been.
Then when Buffy died and Spike went down into that crypt, Xander just couldn’t take the waste again. He told himself he had done it for Buffy. That she would have wanted them to take care of the vampire. But Xander desperately needed Spike to survive for himself. He needed that voice bitching at him to “get off his lazy arse and change the channel”. He needed cigarette smoke blown in his face, pocket change “borrowed” from his dresser, and blood encrusted mugs left sitting on the coffee table without coasters. When the women in his life, whom he loved with all his heart, were hissing and spitting like cats, he needed to look up at that crinkly smile and laugh. He needed someone who knew that giving someone shit was the highest form of affection. He needed someone who had known Buffy and who got what that meant. He needed Spike.
A new Slayer had been called and Giles and Willow were busy trying to help her and her new watcher. Everyone was bent out of shape about yet another apocalypse. Dawn was just devastated. So that left Xander. He got a couple of guys from the site, who needed the extra cash and weren’t afraid of monsters, to help him. Spike had pulled the crypt down behind him, the entire structure collapsed into itself. Xander was afraid that if he tried to pull back the rubble, it would all come down on Spike, whose vampiric healing powers could be ebbing slightly low after so many weeks of starvation. So they tunneled in from the side. Xander’s grim and evil recurring nightmare always skewed the details. The tunnel had been a properly dug and constructed structure. They never worked at night. Not completely insane here, people. Spike had not been a skeleton when he found him. But he had nearly been, and the reek and the dark and the fear in the dream were very much what it had been like.
He’d almost lost him. Xander had lost so many friends. Sometimes, quite often, he’d felt it was his own fault. Too slow, too scared, too stupid, too late. But this time he hadn’t lost, this time he had done it right. And sometimes, when they were just hanging out at the Bronze or some other club, and they’d be watching the kids on the dance floor, Xander’d be talking and all of a sudden he couldn’t explain, and Spike would just look at him and laugh and throw his arm around him and say, “Yeah, Xan, I get ya.” And Xander would feel that he did. That somebody got him. And there would be this small, unexpected bubble of happiness. And Xander had thought that maybe he deserved this. He had done something right, and maybe he deserved this. And then he noticed the feelings. And it all turned to crap. Because Xander Harris, evil sick bastard that he secretly knew he must be, had found himself attracted to his friend.
He knew he loved him. In a beery, “I luv ya man” over pool and sports kinda way. Spike was his best friend, and how wonky was that right there? He could still remember when Spike had locked he and Wills in the factory and threatened to kill them. And now he was closer to Spike than he was to Willow. Not because he and Wills had cooled, exactly. More like he and Spike were just more alike. Who else is a bigger loser than me? And he knew he thought Spike was hot. Well, of course he did, no wiggins there. Everybody thought Spike was hot. He’d seen the girls’ eyes dilate when they looked at him. And the guys’. Maybe it was all part of that vampire thing. Some special glow or scent they gave off to attract the victims. So he knew he loved him, he knew he thought Spike was hot, beautiful even, he knew he was his best friend and the person he’d most like to spend a Saturday night with watching WWF Wrestling. None of this gave Xander pause. He just plowed on ahead.
Until he started dreaming about that night in the factory. The time Spike had locked them in, and he and Willow had lost control. And in the dream they were kissing, and more. In the dream Cordelia and Oz never came through the door, and the kiss went on and on and eager hands stroked and squeezed and in the dream Xander opened his eyes and looked up at his friend. But it wasn’t Wills. It was Spike.
And he’d wake up lying in a pool of his own cum.
“So waddya think of Freud?” Xander plunked down his beer and glared at the liquor bottles behind the bar. How many flavors did you need?
“Dunno mate, she that little red head over by the staircase?”
“No Spike,” Xander rolled his eyes and turned to face the vampire, “Sigmund Freud, dream analysis, ya know. What d’ya think? ‘S there anything in it?”
“Not a clue, Xan. Vampires don’t dream.” Spike gave Xander one of those enigmatic, preternatural immortal looks.
“You’re shitting me, again, Spike. I can always tell. You go all Obi Wan.”
Spike laughed and slapped his arm. “What’s the matter, you having those dreams about Rupert again?”
“Spike, you are so completely disgusting.” Xander turned his face away, alarmed to feel his cheeks suddenly flush. “Not all dreams are about sex.”
“Everything is about sex, mate. ‘Specially when you’re getting’ none.”
Gauntlet thrown. Xander swiveled back around. “Dunno ‘bout that, Spike. Guess it must be hard.”
“Oooh. All the time pet. AAALLL the time. So what you sayin’. You Howard Hughes now or somethin’?” Spike smirked knowingly. “ I haven’t smelled a girl on you in weeks.”
“People bathe, Spike. I do alright.”
“Oh sure, that’s why you’re walking around with that sawed off baseball bat in your shorts. And such a pheromone blast comin’ off you I’m surprised it’s not drawing the feral cats from the street.”
“Fuck, Spike!” Xander suddenly found he couldn’t sit still. He grabbed at his beer with a shaky hand and stood up. “What are you, some kind of dog, going around sniffing people’s crotches?” He took a quick swig of his beer. His eyes darting around the bar. Looking at everyone but Spike. “Just really disturbing ya know.”
Spike looked at Xander in surprise. Not sure if they were still joking. “Yeah, all part of that enhanced super strength package.”
“Well go use your powers for good or something, Clark Kent. Just quit sticking your super Scooby senses in my business.”
Spike was silent for a moment. Regarding the agitated man. “Sorry, Xan,” he said simply. Xander risked a glance at him. Spike looked worried and concerned and abashed. Like he’d unknowingly broken some rule of etiquette. Xander sighed and sank back down on his barstool.
“Don’t worry about it Spike. Shit sleep last night. I feel like hell.”
“You really are having dreams, then? That what’s keeping you awake?”
“Nah nah, just dumb work stuff. Things in my head.” Xander shifted uncomfortably on his stool. Now very aware of his own state of arousal. He jumped up again. “I gotta get outta here, Spike. You wanna chaperone me home?” He threw money on the bar and raised his eyebrows at the vampire.
And all the way home Xander had found himself noticing things. Stuff you just don’t notice about another guy. Like how close he was standing to you. Or how he looked down and smiled at his own private jokes. Or that little ‘aw shucks’ kick he did with his feet when he was walking slow. Xander despaired of himself. He had to stop thinking this way. He had to stop feeling this way. They arrived at the apartment and Spike paused with him at the door. He gave Xander a speculative look, and for one insane minute Xander thought Spike might be going to kiss him! Spike crooked an eyebrow.
“You sure you’re okay, Harris?”
“Yeah, just need some sleep. I’m good.”
And Xander slammed the door and spun around, heading straight for the liquor cabinet. He filled a highball glass with Scotch, no rocks and downed it quickly, pulling loose his clothes and toeing off his shoes as he made his way to the bathroom. By the time the shower water was hot, Xander had finished the drink. He stepped in and lathered up his hand, the whole time flipping through his mental library of erotic scenarios. None of them vampires, none of them male. He ran his soapy hand down beneath his cock and softly rolled and squeezed his balls. With his other hand he began a slow hard pulling on his erection. God he was hard. He imagined one of the bartenders at the Bronze. A large, perky girl who wore suspenders over her t-shirts. He imagined her slowly pulling down those suspenders, releasing her breasts. Now she began lifting her t-shirt. Yeah that was nice. But not enough. Xander frantically pulled at his cock, his other hand slid around to his backside and began a slow caress up and down his crack, his finger brushed his hole and he shuddered. God he needed to come. He imagined Anya for the first time in ages. One of the most erotic nights of his life. Completely naked she approached the bed, a ball gag and a little black butt plug in her hand. She crawled slowly up the bed, dipping down to rub her breasts against him. Xander yanked on his cock and fast-forwarded the scene. Yeah, now he was on his stomach, the ball gag in his mouth, a blindfold over his eyes. And Anya was pushing in that butt plug. Xander’s finger found his hole again and pressed. Pushing that thing into him. Xander pressed his finger beyond the ridge of muscle and felt it pop in. He stroked his cock even faster and thrust his finger rhythmically into his hole, imagining the gag and the utter darkness and the sensation of the cool body over him as that thing was rhythmically pressed into him deeper and deeper. “Fuck me,” whispered Xander desperately into the spray of water. “Fuck me.” His hips began to pump into his hand, he felt he was going mad but still he couldn’t come. Oh god. He pushed his finger in deeper, then desperately trying for more sensation he drew it out and thrust in two fingers. He cried out with the pain and jerked wildly at his cock. “Geez!” he said loudly into the shower. “Fuck me, c’mon.” And in his head he heard a cool masculine voice, “Come for me pet…” and he cried out and jerked and spasmed and shot all over the bathroom tiles.
Xander sat in the living room, in his robe, and drank his third highball. He was staring at his feet, the only part of his anatomy he could bear to contemplate at the moment. The problem had an easy solution, he thought grimly. Whatever this insanity was, it would undoubtedly go away in time. God knows all the other passions in his life had done. But he was gonna be damned if he lost Spike. Their friendship was one of the few things Xander had done right in a very long time and he wasn’t going to let himself fuck it up. He was going to ignore all the weird crap going on in his body, and his head was going to be running the show. Big head, that is. “Hear that buster,” he addressed his cock, “nobody’s listening to you anymore.” He sipped his drink. He was so not going to fuck this up.
Xander sat on the toilet in his bathroom and listened to Spike leave the apartment. God, he had so fucked this up. He forced himself to rise shakily and step into the shower. As he stood under the water, watching the blood stream down his legs and swirl towards the drain, he tried to think of a way he could face Spike. He couldn’t imagine anything. He couldn’t think of anything that would bring back their friendship after what he had done. And Xander thought of Spike, his friend who he had lost, and he started to cry.
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