Wish I could Write a Love Song
Wish I Could Write a Love Song
I've tried to write a love song
that shows the way I feel.
But perhaps I just aint' got it.
Perhaps I never will.
It probably violated the precepts of every known religion for a demon to experience something this close to heaven. Fortunately, Spike had never been terribly religious. He spread his hands across Xander's back, sliding them down so they could span the narrowest part. He thrust into the slick heat of Xander's body, groaning as it tightened around him. Xander drew a shaky breath and Spike petted his skin soothingly, wanting to draw this out.
Spike let his hands curve around Xander's hips and pulled them more tightly to his, sinking deeper inside. He moved, long slow strokes, plunging in and out. Xander mumbled incoherently into his pillow and pushed back encouragingly. Spike decided that maybe it was time to give over slow and steady. He sped up, his hands clenching on Xander's hips. His world narrowed down to the boy in front of him, under him, around him. Xander made that whimpering noise that drove Spike mad, and he growled and thrust harder. The orgasm ripped through him, pouring up from his toes and straight out his cock. He was still shuddering his release when Xander reared up against him and fisted his own erection. It was only moments before Spike felt Xander quaking around him, coming into his hand. They slumped together onto the bed.
Xander was still boneless and panting when he asked, "Hey, Spike. Are we friends yet?" Spike knew it was coming, and he managed not to tense. It was the same question every night, whether they'd been fucking or fighting. It had started out teasing, almost an inside joke. By now it was a chore for Xander to ask, his voice tight with the anticipation of disappointment. It reminded Spike of the Beast asking Beauty to marry him every night at dinner, and felt a wash of unwonted sympathy for Beauty. The irony of being cast as the innocent heroine to Xander's Beast did not escape him.
Spike never knew what the right answer was. He knew they'd passed friendship right by, but he couldn't explain it properly. In the past week, he'd denied friendship vehemently, passed it off with jokes, recited apt quotations, and sarcastically sworn to be Xander's bosom bow. Tonight, he purred, "You do this with your friends?" into Xander's ear. He pumped his still half-hard cock in and out of Xander's body one more time to emphasize his words.
The boy shivered and twitched his ear away from Spike's mouth. "*My* friends lack the basic equipment for this particular activity," he said, pulling away. His light tone didn't disguise the hurt underneath his words. He climbed out of bed and walked to the bathroom to clean off. Spike got dressed, listening to Xander splashing in the other room. He pulled his shirt on quickly, but donned his jeans with more care. The feel of rough denim right after sex was almost enough to make Spike consider underwear. He was tying his boots when Xander crawled back into bed, curling up on his side facing away from Spike. Spike leaned down and pressed a kiss to Xander's bare shoulder.
"I'll be back before dawn," he said. His voice was brusque, but his kiss was gentle.
He was nearly out the door when he heard Xander's soft, "Be careful." He felt a sliver of tension leave him at the warning. Not enough though. Spike needed to hurt something.
It wasn't until after he'd beaten two demons and mugged three humans that Spike felt calm again. He didn't know what Xander wanted from him. They got along well. Sure they tossed insults around, but Xander knew he was just taking the piss when he said those things. They played video games and pool, patrolled with Buffy, watched a little telly. Shagged like weasels. It was all fine, right up until that question. What was he meant to say?
Spike hadn't thought Xander would be a mystery to him. He'd spent so long with Drusilla, he had expected a sane, male human to be easy. Now he would nearly welcome a bout of mad singing and visions. At least he always knew what Dru wanted after one of her fits. Of course, it was the same thing she always wanted, someone to play with and then eat. Or vice versa.
Well, Spike had tried playing off the question often enough, and it was just getting him an unhappy Xander. It was time for drastic measures.
Though most of the town had the sense to lock up at night, Spike found a chemist still open and spent some of his hard earned cash. It was difficult to stalk through the town menacingly with plastic bag swinging from one hand, but he made an effort. His next stop was the public library. It wasn't open, but Spike had little difficulty breaking in and liberating a few books.
When he snuck out of the darkened building, he was burdened with a stack of books as well as his purchases. Spike crept down the basement stairs silently, stepping around obstacles like abandoned shoes and laundry baskets. He was rather chuffed that he hadn't tripped over anything when Xander said, "Are you going to dance around over there, or are you coming to bed?"
Spike froze. "Didn't think you were awake," he said as casually as he could manage.
Xander switched on the lamp. "Surprise! It's the brand new model of Insomia Xander. You get the take home version." He blinked at Spike as his eyes adjusted to the light. "Whatchya got?"
Spike almost tried to hide his swag behind his back, but he resisted. Mostly because it would just make him look like a naughty five year old. He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could with an armload of books.
"Just a few things I picked up," he said. He took a breath which was physically unnecessary but emotionally completely needed. "For you."
Xander stared. "For me?" He held out a hand. "Gimme," he demanded. Spike stepped slowly toward him and handed him the bag. He dropped the books to the bed beside him.
Spike couldn't stand there and watch, so he went to the fridge and got out some blood. He was pouring it into a mug when Xander said, "You got me Ben-Gay?" in an incredulous voice.
Spike closed his eyes. "For when you get all sore after work." He put the blood in the microwave, listening to the rustling sounds from the bed.
"Said that new kind your mum bought made you itch, didn't you?" Spike watched the seconds count down on the microwave.
"O-okay. Why a new razor?" Xander asked. His voice was losing its edge, but it was still disbelieving..
"You cut yourself shaving the other morning. I could smell it," Spike replied. The microwave dinged and he pulled out his mug. He didn't look over at the bed, but he said, "The rest of that's just sweets and what not," as though it didn't matter whether Xander liked them or not.
"These are great." Xander said softly. "You got all my favorites."
Spike took a gulp of hot blood. "Wouldn't want to get things you don't like," he explained. He steeled himself and turned to look at Xander. The boy was watching him with glowing eyes from his nest of sheets and pillows.
He held out a hand for Spike to join him. "What about the books?" he asked. Spike put down his mug and crossed the room, sinking hesitantly to the bed.
"They're ... I don't know what to say to you," Spike admitted. "You ask and ask and I can't get it right. Thought about writing a bloody poem, but I didn't think I could go that route again." Beside him, Xander picked up one of the books and started leafing through it.
"Better than mine. I thought, maybe ..."
"Read it to me?" Xander asked. His eyes were huge and trusting. He gave the volume to Spike and lay back on the bed.
Spike flipped the pages until he found one that brought Xander to mind. "I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing," he read. Xander listened raptly as Spike read poem after poem. It was nearly morning when he stopped. He licked his lips and waited for Xander's reaction.
"I can stop asking now. I guess I just haven't been listening very well," Xander said. He had shifted around to lean against Spike as the vampire read, and he was tracing patterns on Spike's leg. He lay his head on Spike's lap. "You're not my friend either," he said.
Spike heard, "I love you."
Poetry respectfully stolen from e. e. cummings, though he would object to the capitalization and punctuation I’ve added.