Old Tricks -- Spike/Xander 13/?
Title: Old Tricks 13/?
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Underage sex, drug use
Summary: Buffy sends Spike to bring Xander home from Bahrain, a tiny island on the brink of an apocalypse.
Part 13
Spike blinks at a blur of a boy, a gaze that slides him off center. He’s shivering, wrapped in a towel Xander left in the cabin, and he lost his left boot to the ocean. His eyes sting. He’s had better moments.
“Spike - thought you were fucking done for, man. Storm just got worse and worse.” He’s staring at piercings and a broad smile, eyes hidden under black bangs. Oh, right. Liam.
“Yeah - waited for the storm to pass. Got into a bit of trouble, back on that island.” No further explanation offered but one isn’t asked of him. Xander’s outside, docking the boat and herding the girls into his car, shivering little wretches of slayers.
Spike locks his knees to keep from swaying - things go numb before they hurt and won’t that just be the bitch of his tomorrow, when his muscles wake up and remind him how very delicate William the Bloody has become?
“Shit man, are you okay?”
I’m dying, Spike doesn’t say. I’m shaking and bloody and all this will be for nothing because one day I’m going to stop breathing and that will be it. This is pathetic. You’re all fucking pathetic.
“Harris’ll be here in a minute,” he says instead.
*
“Angry cat,” he says with a sneeze (disgusting). The good doctor eyes the round, dotted arcs of bleeding patterns. And sighs.
“Hurt much?” Xander asks from the corner, pocketing his phone.
“Oh no, feels wonderful. Thinking of getting internal stitches regular, like,” he replies, sentence lost in a hiss as Dr. Cook digs a two inch fang from deep within one of the punctures.
“Really, really angry cat,” Xander says as the doctor blinks at it. “Steroids.”
*
Somewhere between Awali hospital and a 24 hour pizza place Xander swears by, it’s decided that Spike will stay at Xander’s place. Harris cites something about Council resources and scandalous mini bar expenses but Spike is already nodding off and doesn’t need any convincing.
He finds himself being half carried inside, mumbling something like thank you when Xander lays him across the bed, already half asleep and aching.
Xander says something about weirdness, love and bourbon but Spike is already asleep.
*
“You alright?” Xander asks over scrambled eggs. He woke up with the sunrise, sat on the steps and watched the sky turn red. It’s nearly eleven now, and the sky’s the same colour.
“Yep. ‘M going out,” Spike replies, wincing around a mouthful of bitter orange juice as he walks out the door. He bumps into Charlotte at the entrance to the compound, walks a little taller when she thanks him for saving her life with her pretty plump lips wobbling around the words. It’s a cheap thrill, but he’ll take what he can get.
Liam and his friends arrive just as Spike is contemplating lighting a cigarette, sweating beneath the shade of palms. He can still smell petrol on his hands and it’s enough to make him hesitate - there are more pauses in a life that will end, more time wasted when there’s less available. Irony colours his days now, makes Spike laugh when nothing else will.
“Hey, get in!” Liam says from within the jeep (blissfully cool and shuddering with music). He’s introduced to their driver - Mo, Liam’s friend and dealer, and three tinkling, interchangeable girls who laugh at every joke and touch everyone more than they need to.
“Check out the sky, man,” Mo says as they drive towards the sun, “end of the world’s here, I’m telling you.”
There are the inevitable giggles from the lip glossed harpies, the subject dismissed, and the conversation turns to nine dinar night at a seedy local club.
It very nearly drives Spike to distraction.
[[continued http://nasty-shrew.livejournal.com/67606.html ]]
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Underage sex, drug use
Summary: Buffy sends Spike to bring Xander home from Bahrain, a tiny island on the brink of an apocalypse.
Part 13
Spike blinks at a blur of a boy, a gaze that slides him off center. He’s shivering, wrapped in a towel Xander left in the cabin, and he lost his left boot to the ocean. His eyes sting. He’s had better moments.
“Spike - thought you were fucking done for, man. Storm just got worse and worse.” He’s staring at piercings and a broad smile, eyes hidden under black bangs. Oh, right. Liam.
“Yeah - waited for the storm to pass. Got into a bit of trouble, back on that island.” No further explanation offered but one isn’t asked of him. Xander’s outside, docking the boat and herding the girls into his car, shivering little wretches of slayers.
Spike locks his knees to keep from swaying - things go numb before they hurt and won’t that just be the bitch of his tomorrow, when his muscles wake up and remind him how very delicate William the Bloody has become?
“Shit man, are you okay?”
I’m dying, Spike doesn’t say. I’m shaking and bloody and all this will be for nothing because one day I’m going to stop breathing and that will be it. This is pathetic. You’re all fucking pathetic.
“Harris’ll be here in a minute,” he says instead.
*
“Angry cat,” he says with a sneeze (disgusting). The good doctor eyes the round, dotted arcs of bleeding patterns. And sighs.
“Hurt much?” Xander asks from the corner, pocketing his phone.
“Oh no, feels wonderful. Thinking of getting internal stitches regular, like,” he replies, sentence lost in a hiss as Dr. Cook digs a two inch fang from deep within one of the punctures.
“Really, really angry cat,” Xander says as the doctor blinks at it. “Steroids.”
*
Somewhere between Awali hospital and a 24 hour pizza place Xander swears by, it’s decided that Spike will stay at Xander’s place. Harris cites something about Council resources and scandalous mini bar expenses but Spike is already nodding off and doesn’t need any convincing.
He finds himself being half carried inside, mumbling something like thank you when Xander lays him across the bed, already half asleep and aching.
Xander says something about weirdness, love and bourbon but Spike is already asleep.
*
“You alright?” Xander asks over scrambled eggs. He woke up with the sunrise, sat on the steps and watched the sky turn red. It’s nearly eleven now, and the sky’s the same colour.
“Yep. ‘M going out,” Spike replies, wincing around a mouthful of bitter orange juice as he walks out the door. He bumps into Charlotte at the entrance to the compound, walks a little taller when she thanks him for saving her life with her pretty plump lips wobbling around the words. It’s a cheap thrill, but he’ll take what he can get.
Liam and his friends arrive just as Spike is contemplating lighting a cigarette, sweating beneath the shade of palms. He can still smell petrol on his hands and it’s enough to make him hesitate - there are more pauses in a life that will end, more time wasted when there’s less available. Irony colours his days now, makes Spike laugh when nothing else will.
“Hey, get in!” Liam says from within the jeep (blissfully cool and shuddering with music). He’s introduced to their driver - Mo, Liam’s friend and dealer, and three tinkling, interchangeable girls who laugh at every joke and touch everyone more than they need to.
“Check out the sky, man,” Mo says as they drive towards the sun, “end of the world’s here, I’m telling you.”
There are the inevitable giggles from the lip glossed harpies, the subject dismissed, and the conversation turns to nine dinar night at a seedy local club.
It very nearly drives Spike to distraction.
[[continued http://nasty-shrew.livejournal.com/67606.html ]]