March 7th, 2003



In Bed

Spike twisted a little, head moving restlessly on the pillow as if waking nightmares were shifting inside. "Sometimes I think...they're going to come again, going to find me and make me pay for everything I did."

Xander's hand continued to trace patterns across the vampire's upper arm. He could have said a lot of things to that. The bastards can try. I won't let them. You're already paying. And Spike was lifting his troubled gaze as if waiting for Xander's own judgment.

He moved his hand to Spike's head, smoothed a hedge of curls, touch sliding down to clasp the back of his neck. "We have a joint account now," he said, and let his eyes speak for every meaning behind his words.

In Bed Again

"You sure you want to--I mean, you don't have to." Xander moved just enough to feel the length of Spike's body resettle against his, grooves to curves, hollows to ridges. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do." Even though they were just talking about a few sex toys, he knew they were talking about more.

Spike, propped up with head hanging over him, pretty and predatory, tilted down a dry, heavy-lidded look. "You realize that most of the sex I've had involved manacles?" For one moment a surge of amusement and excitement rolled through Xander, and then Spike's expression changed minutely, as if his words had impacted on another level, and Xander saw that familiar, haunted shadow in his eyes.

"We can wait," Xander said. And then to distract him, laughed a little, caught his gaze and attention again. Inquiring. "All this negotiation and compromise," he said diffidently, "that must be so vanilla for you."

Smile returning, lurking at the edges, Spike said in his lowest, most even voice, "No. I love it."

It took his breath away, but there was enough to say, "I love you."


For estepheia.

Xander went into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He could smell oatmeal. He wanted bacon--holy cows of god, how he wanted bacon--but he'd eat the oatmeal and the Diced Fruit of Great Boringness, because Spike scowled at him meaningfully if he didn't. Sometimes he didn't even have to scowl. Even set to low-beam, eyebrows ever so slightly raised, his gaze could nail you, slap you, undress you.

In the kitchen, Spike.

Clearly Xander had not yet started taking his own personal, household vampire for granted, because his heart did a startling backflip that Buffy would have envied at the sight of him standing by the stove, black silk robe flowing loosely off his lazy shoulders, black silk pajama bottoms doing silky pajama things to his legs. When he saw Xander--strange, dipping turn of the head--he shifted and leaned back against the counter to face him, showing himself off: Xander's handiwork from the previous night, bites deep enough to have not yet faded; the gift of jade choker around his neck like a cat collar; the slim, muscular cascade of his body. His entire pose from the set of his bare feet to the lowered lust of his eyes said: I am your property, and you need to do wicked things to me. Now.

Okay, thought Xander, walking forward in a daze.