Errand Boy Blues
folder
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Slash - Male/Male › Spike(William)/Xander
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
3,477
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Slash - Male/Male › Spike(William)/Xander
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
3,477
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Errand Boy Blues
Errand Boy Blues
Spike’s walking up to me, as I stand by the door, swagger set to eleven, cheekbones honed. He looks so – oh, what’s a word for Spike? Irritating, aggravating, evil, despicable, back-stabbing, untrustworthy...no, all of them describe him, but there’s only one that sums him up.
Fuckable.
It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at that face and only wanted to hit it, fist against flesh. I still do -in daylight - but at night when I dream, I’m not making him scream in pain and he’s not calling my name begging me to stop.
He’s close now, close enough to grab, close enough to kiss. Never going to happen. If there’s one thing as certain as the sunrise, it’s the way he feels about me. Contempt would be an upgrade.
“Harris? I need you.”
My brain shuts down. Not just an expression; I really think, just for a moment, the world went away. His words fit my thoughts so perfectly that I’m terrified I said them aloud and I’m looking for somewhere to hide.
“Earth to loser. I’m talking to you.”
Ah. Back to normal. This I can deal with. The trading of the insults, the giving of the digs. Better. I’m good at this, I can deal.
“And what makes you think I want to listen to anything you have to say, oh, peroxided one?”
He’s leaning in close enough for me to count freckles now. As if I’d want to (three on his nose, one on his forehead, none of them very visible even though he’s so pale. Guess he doesn’t get out in the sun much, heh).
“Look, it’s nothing bad, no matter what they tell you. Not going to hurt me and it won’t do anything to you. Promise I won’t tell the Slayer or Red you did it, if that’s what’s bugging you.”
“Tell...Buffy...tell...Willow?”
I’m surprised he can understand my words. Even I’m having trouble, I’m squeaking so high.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I’d go myself, but it’s broad daylight out there. I’ll owe you, O.K? Promise I won’t piss you off for a week at least.”
“Oh? Going to stake yourself then? Because that’s the only way you could manage that.” I’m starting to realise there’s a failure to communicate here and it’s a relief to be honest. Yes. It is. A relief.
He growls with frustration and the hairs on my neck rise in response. Other parts of me don’t because they’ve been as up as they can get since I came into the basement and saw him. I’ve spent so long wondering if he can tell...decided he can’t, or he would have said something. Spike miss a chance to put the boot in? Never! (Spike in boots...nothing but boots, long pale legs and scuffed, black leather. Maybe the coat too...draped back so it’s hiding nothing, displaying every...no!) Though if he’s got eyes, and he has, blue eyes, blue like the blue raspberry popsicles that turn your tongue and lips blue when you suck them - did I just put Spike and suck in the same thought? Am I insane? If he’s got eyes, he must see how hard I am...but why would he be looking ... there? He wouldn’t, right?
“I’m asking you for a favour,” he says slowly. “Go and get me some smokes and, look, I’ve even got the money. You can keep the change.”
I glance at the crumpled dollar bills he’s holding out to me and estimate that’ll be about a quarter. I grab them, fighting back a snarl, and turn to leave, feeling the weight of thwarted expectation make every step drag.
“Harris.”
“What?” I don’t turn; don’t want him to see me, even fleetingly, in silhouette. I’m running an errand for him and God, even that’s a thrill in a sick way. I’m so lost here.
“You better hurry.”
“Why?”
I’m gritting my teeth hard enough to flake off enamel. One more snarky comment from him and I’ll...
“Because when you get back, I’m going to be lying on that excuse for a bed of yours, naked. And if you’re not out of those clothes sixty seconds after you in, in, I’ll rip them off you. Be a pleasure, believe me. And then I’m going to make you pay for every time I’ve been hard and you were the reason. Doubt you’ll survive but you’ll die smiling, right?” He’s still talking but I think he lost me at ‘naked’. “– and then I’ll want to smoke. That’s traditional, yeah? Are you still here?”
And I’m hurrying, but not to the shops. If he thinks he’ll have the energy to smoke afterwards, he’s wrong.
Besides, by the time I’ve finished with him, it’ll be dark and he can get his own.
Spike’s walking up to me, as I stand by the door, swagger set to eleven, cheekbones honed. He looks so – oh, what’s a word for Spike? Irritating, aggravating, evil, despicable, back-stabbing, untrustworthy...no, all of them describe him, but there’s only one that sums him up.
Fuckable.
It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at that face and only wanted to hit it, fist against flesh. I still do -in daylight - but at night when I dream, I’m not making him scream in pain and he’s not calling my name begging me to stop.
He’s close now, close enough to grab, close enough to kiss. Never going to happen. If there’s one thing as certain as the sunrise, it’s the way he feels about me. Contempt would be an upgrade.
“Harris? I need you.”
My brain shuts down. Not just an expression; I really think, just for a moment, the world went away. His words fit my thoughts so perfectly that I’m terrified I said them aloud and I’m looking for somewhere to hide.
“Earth to loser. I’m talking to you.”
Ah. Back to normal. This I can deal with. The trading of the insults, the giving of the digs. Better. I’m good at this, I can deal.
“And what makes you think I want to listen to anything you have to say, oh, peroxided one?”
He’s leaning in close enough for me to count freckles now. As if I’d want to (three on his nose, one on his forehead, none of them very visible even though he’s so pale. Guess he doesn’t get out in the sun much, heh).
“Look, it’s nothing bad, no matter what they tell you. Not going to hurt me and it won’t do anything to you. Promise I won’t tell the Slayer or Red you did it, if that’s what’s bugging you.”
“Tell...Buffy...tell...Willow?”
I’m surprised he can understand my words. Even I’m having trouble, I’m squeaking so high.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I’d go myself, but it’s broad daylight out there. I’ll owe you, O.K? Promise I won’t piss you off for a week at least.”
“Oh? Going to stake yourself then? Because that’s the only way you could manage that.” I’m starting to realise there’s a failure to communicate here and it’s a relief to be honest. Yes. It is. A relief.
He growls with frustration and the hairs on my neck rise in response. Other parts of me don’t because they’ve been as up as they can get since I came into the basement and saw him. I’ve spent so long wondering if he can tell...decided he can’t, or he would have said something. Spike miss a chance to put the boot in? Never! (Spike in boots...nothing but boots, long pale legs and scuffed, black leather. Maybe the coat too...draped back so it’s hiding nothing, displaying every...no!) Though if he’s got eyes, and he has, blue eyes, blue like the blue raspberry popsicles that turn your tongue and lips blue when you suck them - did I just put Spike and suck in the same thought? Am I insane? If he’s got eyes, he must see how hard I am...but why would he be looking ... there? He wouldn’t, right?
“I’m asking you for a favour,” he says slowly. “Go and get me some smokes and, look, I’ve even got the money. You can keep the change.”
I glance at the crumpled dollar bills he’s holding out to me and estimate that’ll be about a quarter. I grab them, fighting back a snarl, and turn to leave, feeling the weight of thwarted expectation make every step drag.
“Harris.”
“What?” I don’t turn; don’t want him to see me, even fleetingly, in silhouette. I’m running an errand for him and God, even that’s a thrill in a sick way. I’m so lost here.
“You better hurry.”
“Why?”
I’m gritting my teeth hard enough to flake off enamel. One more snarky comment from him and I’ll...
“Because when you get back, I’m going to be lying on that excuse for a bed of yours, naked. And if you’re not out of those clothes sixty seconds after you in, in, I’ll rip them off you. Be a pleasure, believe me. And then I’m going to make you pay for every time I’ve been hard and you were the reason. Doubt you’ll survive but you’ll die smiling, right?” He’s still talking but I think he lost me at ‘naked’. “– and then I’ll want to smoke. That’s traditional, yeah? Are you still here?”
And I’m hurrying, but not to the shops. If he thinks he’ll have the energy to smoke afterwards, he’s wrong.
Besides, by the time I’ve finished with him, it’ll be dark and he can get his own.