Disclaimer: A full disclaimer can be found here, but please be assured that none of this is mine.

Rating: R

Summary: Xander’s moving. Kinda angsty, or as kyrieane called it… poignant.



Moving


by
Randy Sex Kitten


Such a daunting task, and yet, Xander hummed as he packed up tiny knickknacks. He methodically wrapped each one in newspaper, then in a plastic sack. He worked his way through the house, refusing to rush, even as his love looked on, a scowl marring lovely features.

First, the furniture went. The theory being, if the big things were out of the way, it would be easier to pack the little things. Not so. Xander moved these little things around from this room to that, not packing, not deciding whether they stay or go, just… rearranging.

The date got closer. Soon the house would no longer be theirs and yet he was still packing.

Could it be that he didn’t want to move? His love pondered this thought. No, Xander wanted to move. His excitement over the new house was real, was true. His face lit up each time their new home was mentioned.

Was it the job? Maybe. He expressed no negativity about the post, seemingly eager to start his new position. But a new position, in a new town with a new house…

It was… overwhelming.

So Xander packed. Each item carefully packaged, lovingly marked with its exact position in the new house. And the house never got clean, never got any closer to being finished, never emptied.

Xander knew why he was slow to pack. He just wasn’t sharing it with anyone.

He had fallen in love in this house. He had lost his love in this house, only to find a stronger, more tangible love in this house. He had been claimed, marked in this house. He had become Spike’s in this house.

The loss of Anya had been hard. Death taking her one-time immortal body, the tuberculosis that had wracked the human Aud and that had disappeared in the demon Anyanka, had reasserted itself in Anya’s delicate figure. They had not seen it coming, had, in fact, had no idea that she was even sick. One week. One week from diagnosis to death.

Xander had been lost. He wouldn’t allow anyone near him and Willow and Giles had been so concerned that they reluctantly asked Spike to watch out for him on patrols, worried that Xander would find some way to follow Anya.

Months passed, and what had begun as an adversarial and antagonistic relationship became friendship. Xander quit being angry that Spike followed him everywhere, began talking to Willow again and, every once in a while, was seen smiling.

After a year, Xander asked Spike to move into his spare room. They were together all the time anyway, and Spike’s crypt had flooded and been overrun with, ironically enough, leeches. The invitation had come after the sixth or seventh time that Xander had plucked the tiny bloodsuckers off of Spike’s back.

More time passed. Xander spent all of his time away from work with Spike. They patrolled, usually just the two of them, played pool and hung out in front of the TV. They took regular trips to L.A. Sometimes just to irritate Angel, but more often they went to concerts, amusement parks and museums.

In Xander’s bedroom, things began to change. Two years after her death, Xander began to use the entire bed to sleep, no longer avoiding the side that had held Anya. He packed up her clothes and shoes, not offering them to any of his friends, instead allowing the less fortunate in Sunnydale to benefit from Anya’s excellent taste. Her toothbrush was tucked away. Hairbrushes, makeup and other toiletries found their way into a box at the back of his closet. Her perfume was placed in his bedside table and her pictures just disappeared.

Then one weekend, while Spike was sitting on the couch, laughing at a British comedy on PBS that Xander just didn’t understand, Xander fell in love again, his best friend on the planet sitting beside him.

Bright blue eyes flashed as a hearty laugh escaped. Slender arms crossed across the taut belly, which was covered by a thin, white wife beater. Black sweatpants covered lean legs and bare feet were buried under an afghan that was lying across Xander’s legs. And as beautiful a picture as that made, Xander realized that he would love Spike regardless of what he looked like.

It hurt. Tears rolled down his face as he struggled with his emotions. He had decided long ago that he was never going to fall in love again. He was going to live with Spike and go through the motions until something killed him. He was going to go to his grave loving Anya.

He sobbed, great wracking cries that shook his body. Spike had abandoned the television, drawing Xander into his arms and cooing at him, as one would to a battered child. They sat like that, Xander screaming out his heart’s betrayal and Spike simply holding him.

Afterwards, Xander felt empty. Spike carried him to bed, ignorant of the conflict that had wreaked such havoc on Xander’s soul. He sat on the bed throughout the night, watching over Xander as he slept, holding his hand, just being there.

Xander shied away from Spike after that. He didn’t want to love, love only led to pain and loss. He quit talking to Willow once more, retreating into himself. When Spike entered a room, Xander left and finally, it was Willow and Giles, once more, who came to Spike, begging for his intercession.

So Spike cornered Xander when he couldn’t run. He waited for him to climb into the shower one evening, then went into the tiny, steamy room, and demanded that Xander tell him what was going on. What had he done to lose Xander’s friendship? Spike ranted and raved as Xander hid behind the curtain, shivering under cooling water as he refused to acknowledge anything that was being said. Spike’s voice rose in pitch and volume as he cried out his own pain at Xander’s withdrawal. Tears filled his eyes and he began to stammer, finally turning away, telling Xander that he was leaving. He couldn’t stay.

It was Spike’s declaration that brought Xander out of hiding. Naked and cold, he threw himself at Spike’s feet, begging him not to leave. Spike wiped his eyes and stared, Xander’s voice becoming shrill.

Xander admitted everything. His fear, his loss, his love…

And Spike smiled.

Two and a half years after Anya’s death, Xander allowed his lips to touch another person. Spike’s mouth was moist and cool and open in shock. It was a messy, timid kiss, but one that spoke eloquently.

After that, Xander began to talk again, apologized to Willow and Giles again, and started hanging out with Spike again. They would talk, patrol, laugh, eat and play together, neither one ever mentioning the declaration of love, or the kiss.

Months later, Xander awoke with his cock full. He lifted the covers, jerked down his pants, and stared at the aberration, wondering how it had occurred, remembering when it was once a daily occurrence. He realized that he hadn’t touched himself in any way, except to bathe, since Anya had… passed.

He stroked this re-discovered flesh, slowly at first, and then more quickly as his body remembered the wonderful flying sensation that was orgasm. His seed spilled out into his hands and he cried out in pleasure, his mind sending him images of slender arms, taught bellies and wicked smirks.

As he lay there panting, his come cooling on his skin, Xander thought of Spike. And Anya. And he realized that he still loved Anya, that that feeling had not changed, had not diminished because of his love for Spike. And at this realization, he leapt from his bed, his pajama bottoms hobbling him as he raced for Spike’s room, flinging open the door and crying out Spike’s name.

Spike had held him as he cried. But these tears were joyful, and were interspersed with warm, soft kisses, that grew in intensity, that became biting, demanding touches. As they rocked their bodies together, each panting the other’s name, Xander smiled… and it reached his eyes.

Spike moved into Xander’s bedroom. The curtains were nailed shut and possessions shifted as Xander’s stuff, stuff that had trickled into what had once been Anya’s space, were moved to one side to make room for Spike’s.

A bottle of cologne appeared beside the perfume and Xander took great joy in each. His dreams were filled with images of Spike, as dreams of Anya began to fade. The day that Spike pulled her picture out of a drawer and laid it on top of the dresser, Xander smiled, bouncing over to look at a face that he had not seen outside his own mind in over a year.

Spike cleaned off the mantle, fussing at Xander for hiding her away, and centered her there. Her bright, shiny smile lifted the spirit of the room. He pulled out more pictures, pictures of them; Spike, Xander and Anya. Anya had had a lot of those. She had once told Xander that she really liked Spike, that they understood each other in a way no one else could, and Xander could see that in the pictures. He could see the way Spike and Anya had looked, when caught talking candidly. They had been friends, real friends, and Xander’s heart relaxed that much more.

He moved up through his company, bringing Spike to holiday parties, introducing him as his partner. One night, he asked for the impossible and Spike refused. Weeks of badgering and Xander succeeded, finally sporting a bite mark on the inside of his thigh.

Time passed and Xander wanted more. Spike phoned Angel and got what they needed. A single night that changed them both forever. Mated. Claimed. And Spike’s thigh carried an almost identical mark, missing only the distinct scars that can only come from distended canines.

Xander moved up in his company, hitting the glass ceiling and not caring. But others did. His supervisor came to him time and time again, making offers, all which included a move away from Sunnydale. Xander refused each one, happy and secure in his home.

Six years, five of them living with Spike, four of them loving Spike and two of them mated to Spike and he was finally forced into a promotion. No refusal was accepted, nor was his resignation. Spike whooped and hollered, shouting out Xander’s success to the world.

And now they were moving.

Everyone was excited, but no one understood. Xander looked at the bare walls wistfully, reaching into his bedside table to touch the bottles there, drawing one out and bringing it to his nose. A cough alerted him to Spike’s presence and he spun guiltily, dropping the cologne to the floor. Spike picked it up and opened it, dabbing a bit behind each ear before shutting it tightly and placing it back next to the perfume.

“It’s time.”

And it was. The moving trucks took everything else, the box at the back of his closet and the items from his bedside table the only things left in the house. He sighed and clung to Spike, wanting to be close.

Cool touches, whispered words and Spike coaxed him out the door, his boxes in his arms. A kiss, and Xander didn’t notice the door shutting. A touch and Xander didn’t notice walking down the walkway, away from his past. A laugh and Xander realized that the house they were leaving wasn’t important. He still held the memories, still held Spike. Another laugh and Spike was barreling down the road, and Xander forgot to look back.




The End







Feed the Author

Visit the Author's

 Live Journal Visit the Author's

 Website

Home Categories New Stories Non Spander