Secret Rendezvous


Part Sixteen

He was sure he could die a happy man right at this moment. The things Spike is doing to him... He has never felt this relaxed before, this boneless. Xander moaned softly as Spike's hands roam over his body, down his hips, just skirting the edges of his now hard member. Then, Spike moved back to kneed his buttocks in soft, slow circles, just glancing over the hidden pucker inside.

It would be maddening, Xander was sure, if he wasn’t so completely at ease.

"Spike," Xander whispers, knowing just what he wants, but not having the energy to say it.

"Just relax, Pet," Spike says, kneeling down. He works on Xander's legs, making sure to massage and clean at the same time. He watches with lust-filled eyes as Xander unconsciously bucks towards him. Spike knows what his boy wants, what he needs, what he won’t admit to…but not yet. This time, he wants Xander to ask for it, to beg for it. He wants to hear that Xander wants him and needs him, wants to know that he’s not still holding out, lying to himself.

Xander’s knees feel like they were ready to give out on him. He feels wonderfully like a bowl of mush. Though, other parts of him are well aware of exactly what Spike is doing and what position he is in. And those were the parts that were vying hard for his attention. Hard being the operative word.

He wants Spike, wants to take him right there in the shower. Xander could almost picture Spike bent over, holding onto the wall as Xander pounds into him repeatedly. Or, him pushed up against the wall, holding onto Spike for dear life as he drives into Xander, seemingly trying to push him through the tiles.

Spike stands up and maneuvers Xander under the spray to wash off the soap. Taking the initiative, Xander leans forward and crushes his lips to Spike’s as his hands fly over the pale, hard flesh, wanting to feel it all. He needs Spike, Xander realizes. Needs him like air and food, like beer and Twinkies.

“Not yet, Pet,” Spike says, gently pushing Xander away. He laughs at the confused look on Xander’s face, but just reaches over and turns off the water and leads him out of the shower, handing him a towel.

Part Seventeen

On auto pilot Xander dries off, watching Spike. Something is up, he is sure of it. Spike does not do things like this without reason. Spike does not do random acts of kindness. First of all, he is a vampire. Secondly, he’s Spike. Evil - not nice - Spike.

“Who are you and what have you done with the real Spike,” Xander asks, still watching Spike. He watches as Spike slows down, blinking a few times before turning to him.

“Didn’t know I wasn’t me, Pet,” Spike says, cocking his head to the side and looking Xander over. “You alright? You look pale.”

Is he alright? No, Xander is not. Spike has his mind running in loops, looking for the angle, looking for the price tag. He knows this will cost him; he just has to figure out what. That is the key, figuring out what Spike wants in return for his kindness.

“What is this, Spike?” Xander asks.

Spike looks at him, cocking his head to the side, trying to figure out what is going on inside of his boys head for him to ask that question. “A shower,” Spike answers simply.

“No, what is this?” Xander asks again, motioning between them. He cannot ask outright, afraid of laughter or ridicule that he always expects from Spike.

“What do you want it to be, Pet?” Spike asks.

"Stop with the cryptic already! You're starting to sound like Deadboy," Xander says, pacing away from the vampire.

"Don't ever compare me to him," Spike says, his voice low and angry. Xander watches as Spike fights with his demon for control. The gold flecks in the blue of his eyes are on there for only a moment before it reverts to the deep blue it was.

Xander knows he should probably be afraid of Spike, him being a vampire, and even chipped, Spike is still vindictive and evil as all get out, but he could not grasp onto that emotion. All he could feel was hurt, anger, and sadness. Maybe he had been wrong about Spike, maybe this was not the kind of relationship Xander thought it to be. He feels used and dirty.

"Fine," Xander says in a small voice, defeat and weariness taking him over. He walks quickly out of the bathroom and to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Part Eighteen

Xander flops down on his bed, Dawn's old bed. He took up Dawn's old room when he moved in, letting the girl have her choice of the other rooms. She ended up taking her mother's old room, and Xander could understand why.

He remembers the way it looked when he first moved in. Teenager, female, all the way. Pink, and frilly, and soft. Looking around, Xander thinks he has roughened the edges a bit. Wood is everywhere, in the desk, in the CD tower, in the bed. He had made it, worked it, shaped it, and made it his own. He feels comfortable here.

Getting up, Xander walks through the room, touching and feeling everything he had made to make it his, to add his own personal touch to the room. He makes his way to the leaning CD tower and smiles ruefully. He remembers making that, years ago, when he was not so good with his hands. He could remake it, he knows, but he does not want to. It is a reminder of how far he has come since then. It reminds him of everything he has been through, both good and bad, normal and Hellmouth-y.

Looking through his CD's, Xander chooses the one he had asked Willow to make for him. It was nothing but slow, depressing country songs, perfect to mope and think to.

Placing his CD in the player, Xander grabs a pair of headphones, puts the CD on repeat, and lies on the bed. It is cathartic, relaxing, and tons easier then actually talking to the blond pain in his ass.

Xander is still unsure of what is going on with them, what they are doing at night in the shadows. It is not like him, to do these things, to feel these feelings, not for Spike, not for the vampire he hates almost as much as Angel. He seriously thinks something is wrong with him, that something is broken inside.

He had promised Willow earlier that he would talk to Spike, and he will, eventually, just...not right now. Now he needed to think, to contemplate, to decide what he is going to do.

Xander does not wipe away the tears that fall, but closes his eyes, and lets them go.

Part Nineteen

Spike's hand grazes through his still damp hair and he winces when he hears Xander's door shut quietly.

"Bloody hell," Spike says softly, looking into the mirror.

It doesn't reflect his image, not that he thought it would, but he looks, searches, squints, and prods the mirror, willing it to show him something, anything that might solve his problem, that might help him with Xander. Instead of answering, it just sits there, reflecting the wall behind him. The faded floral pattern is fuzzy and obscured by what is left of the steam as it clings to every surface.

The bathroom could be hollow and empty for all the mirror cares. Nevertheless, Spike cares, he wants...he wants to be seen for once, seen for something other then the vampire, other then the Big Bad. He wants and needs Xander to see him, through him, and into him for the core of himself.

For once, Spike just wants someone to know him, the real him. He wants someone to know that he is more than blood and fangs, wants someone to know that he is more than just fucking and fighting.

That is what Spike was trying to convey, through the shower, through the gentle touches and soft caresses. He had wanted Xander to know that there was more to him, a depth unseen, but somehow it became distorted and misunderstood.

That, or Xander is just using Spike.

No, Spike could not believe that, not about his boy, not about Xander. Of all of them, he and Willow were the least likely to ever use anyone.

And why had Xander left Dawn with Willow and Tara, if not for something like this? This is what Spike had thought Xander wanted...wants. Did he really read his boy so wrong? Had he mistaken everything?

Part Twenty

Xander sits on the back porch of the Summer's home and looks out into the night. How many times had he seen Spike sitting there, exactly like that? How many times had he come upon that scene and thought it the simplest yet most arousing thing he had seen? He remembers one time wishing that he could capture that moment somehow, either on film or through drawing, but he had not. Xander does not have a talent for sketching, and he is not sure if Spike would show up on film.

Mimicking Spike to a tee, the brunette pulls a pack of cigarettes he had found in the basement and a pack of matches from the kitchen and lights up. He coughs and sputters, not used to the harsh feel of smoke going into pink, perfect lungs.

Bound and determined, Xander inhales again, coughing again, but he does not put the cigarette out. If he cannot have the picture of Spike, or the drawing, then he will reenact the scene.

It is all he has left.

After Willow, Tara, and Dawn had left earlier that day, Xander had gone down to the ruin of Spike's bedroom. It was such an empty space, nothing that truly said 'Spike'. A bed that had been pushed against the far wall, which was now over turned. The chair from Xander's basement. He remembers tying Spike up in that chair. How had they gone from being mortal enemies to...whatever they were?

He does not know how to classify their thing. It is not a relationship, or at least not what Xander considers a relationship. Had Spike thought they were in a relationship? Had he thought something that Xander had no clue about? It would seem so.

So, Xander sat, smoking, in the dark of the porch, wishing he knew what to do.

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