Huh. Well, this is...interesting.

I meant to write a shmoopy, sexy little Spander drabble for wiseacress.



During the day, they don't go anywhere. Can't, of course-- Spike, vampire-- but Xander thinks they probably wouldn't leave the motel anyway, even if they could. Not much out there, any more. Tumbleweeds, he thinks, and almost laughs.

They sleep a lot, in a hot tangle of limbs and sheets smelling of skin. Xander's skin, that is, since Spike doesn't really have a smell of his own. Spike, my tofu vampire boyfriend, Xander thinks, but sarcasm doesn't sound the same inside his head. In fact, it doesn't sound much like sarcasm at all.

There's no TV, since...everything, so to pass the time they read whatever they've managed to pick up on the road. Sometimes it's maps, sometimes brochures from state parks they find at rest areas. Crusty old issues of Us Weekly, the stunning irrelevance of Britney Spears or Colin Farrell always good for a laugh. Or something. Rarely, they'll score a grubby paperback; doesn't matter if it's Crichton or King or Grisham or Danielle fucking Steele. They read it. Usually, Spike reads aloud, since Xander's eye gets tired easily. Sometimes he feels like his whole life exists only in the sound of Spike's voice.

And it's not bad, this life. The truth of it surprises Xander. He knows that apocalypse is supposed to be a bad thing, but somehow, losing everything, floating through his days and nights with nothing but Spike to connect him to his life before-- it's as though he's permanently wrapped in cotton, now. Life's sort of muffled and fuzzy and unreal, and mostly just fine.

The pharmaceuticals help. When Spike first came back from scavenging at a hospital-- they were in Tulsa, or Tampa-- with vials and syringes and alcohol swabs, Xander had been outraged. Child of the Reagan eighties, but try just saying no to a determined, fanged-out vampire. Spike had been right, though. It made things better. That had been months ago. Xander can barely call up his initial indignation, now. Especially when it's his turn to be on the right end of the needle. That good quick pop, the long slow sizzle, and then...

Sometimes Spike fucks him then. Afternoon, Xander's nodding, naked under the sheets, and there's a cool hand on his shoulder, his thigh. Pale gold light is slanting in through the vertical blinds and the room is warm, humid. Time draws out, circles and reverses. Xander has the feeling of being moved, but carefully, slowly, like being pulled through deep water. He's lazy, resistless and pliant, as Spike arranges his limbs. Through heavy lids, he watches Spike watching him. Sometimes Spike talks. Crap, mostly-- Xander, so beautiful-- as he rubs his cock through his jeans. Xander knows he's about a million miles down a bad road from beautiful, but it's nice enough to hear anyway.

Spike knees his legs apart, touches him. So gentle, fingers whispering up his thighs and between his legs. His sleepy cock stirs, and he wants. This. Spike. He's making sounds in his throat, little kitten sounds, but it doesn't matter because nothing matters. None of this matters. There's going to be a do-over any day now, Xander thinks, and none of this will count any more. In the meantime, Spike's mouth is on his, and he's moaning, and Spike's weight is on him, skin to skin. There's something slick and cool spread over him, and then the dull pressure of Spike's cock. And then there's only Spike, fucking him, inside him, and he's stretched and full and gasping, his own dick hard against Spike's belly. His eye is closed, he realizes, and he opens it, wanting to see Spike's face hovering just above his own. The blue of his eyes is like water, like the blameless blue of the summer sky. Spike jerks once and moans and comes inside Xander, shuddering, watching.

Xander smiles, and nods.