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Wheeeeeeee, Spander!
*bounce*
I promised this fic to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
witling when I did Sweet Charity back in the Spring. Finally, I'm writing! And posting. I have no idea how many parts there will be. Spander sexin', drug use, violence - Apoco-fic at its finest, people!
Sweet Charity is still going strong, so head on over and make a bid! *Don't forget that![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fire_fic is open for bids until the 31st of October! New people keep signing up with offers, so check them both out!*
Beta'd by the incomparabledarkhavens and given the green light by reremouse and sweptawaybayou. You guys rock.
Enjoy!
And the first thing I said to him, as we woke up in the Limbo tub was, "Hergal, why do you always do it like that? It hurts."
"Pain is a reality," Hergal said, and turned out his communication light.
Tanith Lee – 'Don't Bite the Sun'
When it all happened, some called it the Rapture. Christ finally taking pity, and calling his children home. But more than the godly vanished in that long, strange night, and sinners and saints alike were left to crawl over the face of the harrowed Earth. The Hellmouths themselves – even the closed one in California – opened again. But this time they weren't hidden pits but yawning maws, spewing out as much horror as they drew in.
Humans, being the adaptable little primates that they were, survived. Some even flourished. And some escaped, because for every thing in the universe, there is an opposite, and if Hellmouths gaped into the infernal depths then surely, somewhere, was the sweet pursing of a kiss that drew you to Heaven.
Or, at least, somewhere with cable.
"Honey, I'm home," Spike called, and couldn't contain the little rictus of a smirk. He fumbled at the switch and pushed it up, flooding the area near the door with a weak, amber light. The rest of the factory floor receded into shadow and Spike leaned for a moment against the door, eyes shut.
Then he pushed himself upright and pulled down the crossbar – slotted the padlock into place and clicked it shut. "Fire hazard, that," he muttered to himself. In the spirit of not caring, he lit a cigarette, grimacing at the stale flavor of it. Tobacco didn't grow so well anymore. He wandered away from the door, dodging greasy chain falls and islands of machinery that had rusted into tangled lumps. At the back was a listing staircase and Spike went up it two steps at a time, fingers skipping lightly along the railing. 'Upstairs' was mostly just a gallery that went all around the interior of the building but one corner was deep enough to shelter living space, and that was where they had nested.
*Birds in their little nests agree,* Spike thought, and wheezed out smoke in a ragged laugh. He reached up and pulled the chain that hung just overhead and another light came on, a dim cobwebbed bulb that swung restlessly in his wake.
"Go 'way," a voice mumbled, and Spike bounced down onto the layered heap of mattress and foam and bedding, making the whole thing shiver.
"Now, now – that any way to talk to Daddy?"
"Not my daddy. Freak." The figure under the drift of sheets and blankets stirred, arms rowing haphazardly. Tangled in the mess and Spike reached out and yanked, freeing a hedgehog crown of dark hair and a pale, cat-sharp face. One eye was nothing but shadow, the other hectically alight.
"Green Fairy, then. Gonna light you up," Spike said. He dipped his hand into his coat and then withdrew it, fanning three foil packets in his fingers like a magician with a card trick.
Xander sat up fast, shoving the covers down to his waist. He was all ragged muscle and tendon, strung on too-big bones. He looked absurdly younger, starvation-shrunk skin easing the few lines age had brought him. "Could have said, fucker," he snapped. He twisted sideways and reached into the dimness between bed and wall – pulled out a cheap Japanned box, the black lacquer chipped and peeling, the gold-work village scene worn to almost nothing. "Let's get this show on the fucking road."
Spike's hand snaked out, too fast to follow, and twisted into Xander's hair, yanking him over sideways, stretching his neck. Spike's lips just touched the twisted quiver of tendon and muscle. "Show some respect, boy. What do you say?"
"I say shove it up your ass." Xander's voice was muffled, his mouth pressed into the scarred leather of Spike's coat. His breath hot and sweet-sour with old liquor, his hands balled into fists in the worn nap of the blanket that humped between them.
Spike twisted Xander's face up, clawing more hair into his fist and uncovering the remaining eye. The coal of his cigarette reflected there, sick mercurochrome gleam. "What do you say?"
"Please, Daddy, can I have my candy?"
"That's more like it." Spike shoved him away and Xander kicked at him, foot muffled and ineffectual.
"You're such a fucking control freak."
"And you love it." The packets disappeared and Xander made a whining sound of pure frustration. "Rules, you git. Get up." Spike pushed himself to his feet and made his way across the clothes-strewn floor to a little table. He stood there, unloading cans and packets from his pockets into a tidy heap.
"Jesus, you're like some kind of demented Santa." Xander heaved the mass of bedding off himself and crawled up out of the nest. His jeans were threadbare – shiny along the seams with dirt and age, raveling at every rivet. They hung low on his hips and he hitched at them, stumbling over the tattered hems.
Spike eyed him, taking in the long, pale torso that was mottled with bruises and one angry red scrape. "You look like a scarecrow."
"Find me some new jeans, then."
"Like that'd help. Here." Spike pulled the ring tab up on a can of peaches and peeled the lid off – set the can in front of one of the chairs. Another can – mini ravioli – joined the peaches, and then a waxed paper wrapped hunk of pan-fried bread.
Xander slumped down into the chair, wincing when it groaned in protest. "It's fucking cold."
"We'll get something hot later. Eat up, raggedy man."
"Don't quote Tina Turner at me," Xander muttered. He dug a bent fork out of a box on the table and poked listlessly at the ravioli. "Got anything to drink?"
"Just that shite they make down at the corner." Spike put a recycled soda bottle on the table. It was half full of some milky-tan substance and Xander grabbed it and twisted the lid off – took a long drink.
"Fuuuck, he wheezed, doubling over, and Spike snatched the bottle out of his hand, sniffing it.
"Christ, is that turpentine? Bastards."
"I'm gonna puke," Xander rasped, and Spike kicked at his leg under the table.
"Do it over the rail, for fuck's sake."
Xander shot him an evil look, coughing hard. His eye was tearing and he wiped at it with his knuckles and then spat to one side, into a mess of crumpled newspaper. "Asshole."
"Just being practical. Hurry up with your dinner now, we've got things to do, places to go –"
"Me to exploit." Xander straightened up and stabbed a forkful of ravioli up – shoved it into his mouth. His teeth gleamed, still white and straight and perfect.
"Would you rather I sold your skinny ass to the brothels?"
"Bet they have hot food."
"Bread's still warm, if you shut up and eat it." Spike flicked the butt of his cigarette over the rail, gaze tracking the little falling spark for a moment. "I told you, we'll get something hot later. After we make some dosh."
"Yeah, whatever." Xander crammed more ravioli into his mouth and Spike made a disgusted sound.
"Fucking pig."
"Just cook up. I'll be done in a minute." Xander ripped off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth with the ravioli.
"Make yourself sick," Spike muttered, but he got up and retrieved the box – opened it and began to lay out the paraphernalia from inside. Xander watched him, his eye glittering with manic interest, tracking every move Spike made. His hands shook as he scraped the last of the ravioli out of the can and ate it, licking the fork clean.
"Peaches too. You'll get scurvy."
"Find me some vitamins. I don't like canned peaches," Xander said. He speared a couple slices anyway and ate them, licking the syrup off his lips.
Spike lit a candle-stub with a flourish and lifted the foil packets out of his pocket, carefully peeling the edge back on one. "I'll try and find some pears or something next time."
"Applesauce," Xander said, his gaze fixed on the packet. On the dusting of bluish powder that Spike tipped out into an antique silver soup spoon. Not quite heroin, not quite coke – not quite anything, anymore, that most humans would recognize. "That looks good."
"Got it from that little rat-faced demon down by the palace fountain." Spike's name for the Buckingham fountain, since he said that name should only be used for the real thing, not some 'sodding, half-arsed swimming pool with spitting sea cows'.
"They got the fountain running again?" Xander tipped the peach can up, drinking the dregs of peach-pulp and juice in long swallows.
Spike's gaze lingered on the smooth undulations of this throat. "Yeah, up and spitting. Maybe you can go for a swim."
"Too cold. We'll go down and see it, though, huh?" Xander clattered the can onto the table and wiped his lips on the back of his wrist, staring at Spike's hands. Spike was fussily measuring some liquid – not water – into the deep bowl of the spoon, watching the powder soak it up and turn a sort of turquoise.
"Maybe."
"C'mon, Spike – I wanna see the sea cows. Pleease? For me, Daddy?"
Spike glanced up, a swift, laughing look that made Xander grin for the first time. "Be a good boy and you'll get a treat."
"Oh, goody," Xander said, but his voice was thick with sarcasm.
Spike finished dripping the liquid into the spoon and moved it carefully over the candle flame. It bubbled immediately, turning a pure, perfect azure. Like a bit of sky and Spike stared down at it for a long moment, the color reflecting in his own eyes. When he finally glanced up, blinking, Xander was just sitting there, a worn-out strip of rubber tubing dangling from his fingers. His eye was welling tears, colorless streak of shine down his cheek. Spike picked up a discolored glass syringe and gestured with it.
"Come on, then."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Xander wound the tubing around his bicep and pulled it tight, lip caught between his teeth and Spike filled the syringe – held it up and carefully tapped out an air bubble. He scooted his chair closer to Xander – tucked Xander's arm under his own, the heat coming through the worn leather, blossoming against his ribs.
Spike caught Xander's gaze and held it, taking a slow breath. Xander copied him, his expression intent and sober. "Ready?"
"Steady..."
"Go," Spike whispered. He slid the needle into the raised, blue trace of vein in Xander's arm – carefully pulled the plunger back a fraction. Blood swirled into the drug, tinting the azure to indigo. Xander reached up and slid his free hand around the back of Spike's skull – tugged him close. Their mouths met when Spike pushed the plunger down, and Spike sucked Xander's lip free of the grip of his teeth – licked inside, tasting peach syrup and tomato and the chemical cut of turpentine. Xander shuddered under him, trembling little whine of breath pushing out of his nose, his whole body going tight and hard as the azure flooded through him.
"Ah....God...lights come on.. fuck..." Xander shivered as the needle slipped free and Spike popped the tubing off – got his own grip on Xander's neck and kissed him harder.
"Later. Promise. Jesus, there..." The taste of the drug – lemon-acid-sweet – flooded Xander's mouth and Spike groaned softly, anticipating. Xander would smell of it for hours. "My turn."
"Your turn..." Xander whispered, eye shut. He reached out and plucked the syringe from Spike's hand. "I'll do it."
"Yeah, okay...let me –" Spike pulled a length of black cloth from another pocket and wrapped it around Xander's face, covering his eye. He knotted it – smoothed it down – watched as Xander picked up another dose of azure and fixed it, working steadily – delicately. Clearly seeing, and the empty socket of his ruined eye seemed to hold something now. Something not-quite-there. Something new.
*Something old, something new, something borrowed, something...blue...*
*bounce*
I promised this fic to
witling when I did Sweet Charity back in the Spring. Finally, I'm writing! And posting. I have no idea how many parts there will be. Spander sexin', drug use, violence - Apoco-fic at its finest, people! Sweet Charity is still going strong, so head on over and make a bid! *Don't forget that
fire_fic is open for bids until the 31st of October! New people keep signing up with offers, so check them both out!*Beta'd by the incomparable
darkhavens and given the green light by reremouse and sweptawaybayou. You guys rock.Enjoy!
And the first thing I said to him, as we woke up in the Limbo tub was, "Hergal, why do you always do it like that? It hurts."
"Pain is a reality," Hergal said, and turned out his communication light.
Tanith Lee – 'Don't Bite the Sun'
When it all happened, some called it the Rapture. Christ finally taking pity, and calling his children home. But more than the godly vanished in that long, strange night, and sinners and saints alike were left to crawl over the face of the harrowed Earth. The Hellmouths themselves – even the closed one in California – opened again. But this time they weren't hidden pits but yawning maws, spewing out as much horror as they drew in.
Humans, being the adaptable little primates that they were, survived. Some even flourished. And some escaped, because for every thing in the universe, there is an opposite, and if Hellmouths gaped into the infernal depths then surely, somewhere, was the sweet pursing of a kiss that drew you to Heaven.
Or, at least, somewhere with cable.
"Honey, I'm home," Spike called, and couldn't contain the little rictus of a smirk. He fumbled at the switch and pushed it up, flooding the area near the door with a weak, amber light. The rest of the factory floor receded into shadow and Spike leaned for a moment against the door, eyes shut.
Then he pushed himself upright and pulled down the crossbar – slotted the padlock into place and clicked it shut. "Fire hazard, that," he muttered to himself. In the spirit of not caring, he lit a cigarette, grimacing at the stale flavor of it. Tobacco didn't grow so well anymore. He wandered away from the door, dodging greasy chain falls and islands of machinery that had rusted into tangled lumps. At the back was a listing staircase and Spike went up it two steps at a time, fingers skipping lightly along the railing. 'Upstairs' was mostly just a gallery that went all around the interior of the building but one corner was deep enough to shelter living space, and that was where they had nested.
*Birds in their little nests agree,* Spike thought, and wheezed out smoke in a ragged laugh. He reached up and pulled the chain that hung just overhead and another light came on, a dim cobwebbed bulb that swung restlessly in his wake.
"Go 'way," a voice mumbled, and Spike bounced down onto the layered heap of mattress and foam and bedding, making the whole thing shiver.
"Now, now – that any way to talk to Daddy?"
"Not my daddy. Freak." The figure under the drift of sheets and blankets stirred, arms rowing haphazardly. Tangled in the mess and Spike reached out and yanked, freeing a hedgehog crown of dark hair and a pale, cat-sharp face. One eye was nothing but shadow, the other hectically alight.
"Green Fairy, then. Gonna light you up," Spike said. He dipped his hand into his coat and then withdrew it, fanning three foil packets in his fingers like a magician with a card trick.
Xander sat up fast, shoving the covers down to his waist. He was all ragged muscle and tendon, strung on too-big bones. He looked absurdly younger, starvation-shrunk skin easing the few lines age had brought him. "Could have said, fucker," he snapped. He twisted sideways and reached into the dimness between bed and wall – pulled out a cheap Japanned box, the black lacquer chipped and peeling, the gold-work village scene worn to almost nothing. "Let's get this show on the fucking road."
Spike's hand snaked out, too fast to follow, and twisted into Xander's hair, yanking him over sideways, stretching his neck. Spike's lips just touched the twisted quiver of tendon and muscle. "Show some respect, boy. What do you say?"
"I say shove it up your ass." Xander's voice was muffled, his mouth pressed into the scarred leather of Spike's coat. His breath hot and sweet-sour with old liquor, his hands balled into fists in the worn nap of the blanket that humped between them.
Spike twisted Xander's face up, clawing more hair into his fist and uncovering the remaining eye. The coal of his cigarette reflected there, sick mercurochrome gleam. "What do you say?"
"Please, Daddy, can I have my candy?"
"That's more like it." Spike shoved him away and Xander kicked at him, foot muffled and ineffectual.
"You're such a fucking control freak."
"And you love it." The packets disappeared and Xander made a whining sound of pure frustration. "Rules, you git. Get up." Spike pushed himself to his feet and made his way across the clothes-strewn floor to a little table. He stood there, unloading cans and packets from his pockets into a tidy heap.
"Jesus, you're like some kind of demented Santa." Xander heaved the mass of bedding off himself and crawled up out of the nest. His jeans were threadbare – shiny along the seams with dirt and age, raveling at every rivet. They hung low on his hips and he hitched at them, stumbling over the tattered hems.
Spike eyed him, taking in the long, pale torso that was mottled with bruises and one angry red scrape. "You look like a scarecrow."
"Find me some new jeans, then."
"Like that'd help. Here." Spike pulled the ring tab up on a can of peaches and peeled the lid off – set the can in front of one of the chairs. Another can – mini ravioli – joined the peaches, and then a waxed paper wrapped hunk of pan-fried bread.
Xander slumped down into the chair, wincing when it groaned in protest. "It's fucking cold."
"We'll get something hot later. Eat up, raggedy man."
"Don't quote Tina Turner at me," Xander muttered. He dug a bent fork out of a box on the table and poked listlessly at the ravioli. "Got anything to drink?"
"Just that shite they make down at the corner." Spike put a recycled soda bottle on the table. It was half full of some milky-tan substance and Xander grabbed it and twisted the lid off – took a long drink.
"Fuuuck, he wheezed, doubling over, and Spike snatched the bottle out of his hand, sniffing it.
"Christ, is that turpentine? Bastards."
"I'm gonna puke," Xander rasped, and Spike kicked at his leg under the table.
"Do it over the rail, for fuck's sake."
Xander shot him an evil look, coughing hard. His eye was tearing and he wiped at it with his knuckles and then spat to one side, into a mess of crumpled newspaper. "Asshole."
"Just being practical. Hurry up with your dinner now, we've got things to do, places to go –"
"Me to exploit." Xander straightened up and stabbed a forkful of ravioli up – shoved it into his mouth. His teeth gleamed, still white and straight and perfect.
"Would you rather I sold your skinny ass to the brothels?"
"Bet they have hot food."
"Bread's still warm, if you shut up and eat it." Spike flicked the butt of his cigarette over the rail, gaze tracking the little falling spark for a moment. "I told you, we'll get something hot later. After we make some dosh."
"Yeah, whatever." Xander crammed more ravioli into his mouth and Spike made a disgusted sound.
"Fucking pig."
"Just cook up. I'll be done in a minute." Xander ripped off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth with the ravioli.
"Make yourself sick," Spike muttered, but he got up and retrieved the box – opened it and began to lay out the paraphernalia from inside. Xander watched him, his eye glittering with manic interest, tracking every move Spike made. His hands shook as he scraped the last of the ravioli out of the can and ate it, licking the fork clean.
"Peaches too. You'll get scurvy."
"Find me some vitamins. I don't like canned peaches," Xander said. He speared a couple slices anyway and ate them, licking the syrup off his lips.
Spike lit a candle-stub with a flourish and lifted the foil packets out of his pocket, carefully peeling the edge back on one. "I'll try and find some pears or something next time."
"Applesauce," Xander said, his gaze fixed on the packet. On the dusting of bluish powder that Spike tipped out into an antique silver soup spoon. Not quite heroin, not quite coke – not quite anything, anymore, that most humans would recognize. "That looks good."
"Got it from that little rat-faced demon down by the palace fountain." Spike's name for the Buckingham fountain, since he said that name should only be used for the real thing, not some 'sodding, half-arsed swimming pool with spitting sea cows'.
"They got the fountain running again?" Xander tipped the peach can up, drinking the dregs of peach-pulp and juice in long swallows.
Spike's gaze lingered on the smooth undulations of this throat. "Yeah, up and spitting. Maybe you can go for a swim."
"Too cold. We'll go down and see it, though, huh?" Xander clattered the can onto the table and wiped his lips on the back of his wrist, staring at Spike's hands. Spike was fussily measuring some liquid – not water – into the deep bowl of the spoon, watching the powder soak it up and turn a sort of turquoise.
"Maybe."
"C'mon, Spike – I wanna see the sea cows. Pleease? For me, Daddy?"
Spike glanced up, a swift, laughing look that made Xander grin for the first time. "Be a good boy and you'll get a treat."
"Oh, goody," Xander said, but his voice was thick with sarcasm.
Spike finished dripping the liquid into the spoon and moved it carefully over the candle flame. It bubbled immediately, turning a pure, perfect azure. Like a bit of sky and Spike stared down at it for a long moment, the color reflecting in his own eyes. When he finally glanced up, blinking, Xander was just sitting there, a worn-out strip of rubber tubing dangling from his fingers. His eye was welling tears, colorless streak of shine down his cheek. Spike picked up a discolored glass syringe and gestured with it.
"Come on, then."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Xander wound the tubing around his bicep and pulled it tight, lip caught between his teeth and Spike filled the syringe – held it up and carefully tapped out an air bubble. He scooted his chair closer to Xander – tucked Xander's arm under his own, the heat coming through the worn leather, blossoming against his ribs.
Spike caught Xander's gaze and held it, taking a slow breath. Xander copied him, his expression intent and sober. "Ready?"
"Steady..."
"Go," Spike whispered. He slid the needle into the raised, blue trace of vein in Xander's arm – carefully pulled the plunger back a fraction. Blood swirled into the drug, tinting the azure to indigo. Xander reached up and slid his free hand around the back of Spike's skull – tugged him close. Their mouths met when Spike pushed the plunger down, and Spike sucked Xander's lip free of the grip of his teeth – licked inside, tasting peach syrup and tomato and the chemical cut of turpentine. Xander shuddered under him, trembling little whine of breath pushing out of his nose, his whole body going tight and hard as the azure flooded through him.
"Ah....God...lights come on.. fuck..." Xander shivered as the needle slipped free and Spike popped the tubing off – got his own grip on Xander's neck and kissed him harder.
"Later. Promise. Jesus, there..." The taste of the drug – lemon-acid-sweet – flooded Xander's mouth and Spike groaned softly, anticipating. Xander would smell of it for hours. "My turn."
"Your turn..." Xander whispered, eye shut. He reached out and plucked the syringe from Spike's hand. "I'll do it."
"Yeah, okay...let me –" Spike pulled a length of black cloth from another pocket and wrapped it around Xander's face, covering his eye. He knotted it – smoothed it down – watched as Xander picked up another dose of azure and fixed it, working steadily – delicately. Clearly seeing, and the empty socket of his ruined eye seemed to hold something now. Something not-quite-there. Something new.
*Something old, something new, something borrowed, something...blue...*