finally, my spander inquisition fic
Title: Pantomime
Setting: Summer after “The Gift”
Rating: L for Late as hell
For: paperk8, who requested hesitant!Spike and the line, “Can I touch you?” She also stated a preference for NC-17 fics that combine angst, schmoop and humor. Sorry this is so light on good porny fun, but there's plenty of schmangst.

As always, I have fitofpique, jolielaide and wiseacress to thank for getting me through this. Extra special thanks to my Tenacious B., jolielaide, and to rubywisp for her good humor, saint-like patience and hard work.



Xander was late. Again. He had his hands full at the new multiplex and was managing two other sites simultaneously, and his days were never-ending. He'd become a slave to his pager and was practically living in his car, which was littered with fast food debris, sweaty work clothes and old mix tapes...and at some point, Jesus, he must have really liked Eric Clapton.

He got out of the shower and toweled off quickly, hitting the message button on his answering machine as he passed from bathroom to bedroom.

It was still weird. Living on his own. Coming home to an empty apartment, a tangle of laundry on the dining table and an unmade bed. Some days it felt lonely. Other days it felt...convenient. Alone meant freeform nudity and beer for dinner and falling asleep in front of the game and, occasionally, guilt-free masturbation on the couch. And there were other benefits, lately, though he tried not to think about those too much.

While he dressed, he listened to his mother's tinny voice on the machine reminding him of his promise to mow the lawn tomorrow--always a joy to hear from mom--then Willow giving him the coordinates for tonight's demon slayage. He had his keys in his hand and was pushing out the door when Willow's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Oh, and Spike's here. With us. Just so you know. You know?" And just like that, he knew she knew. Fucking Willow. She always knew.

At the cemetery, things rapidly got out of hand. Giles, Willow and Tara were clustered near the entrance to a gaudy pink mausoleum, working the hocus pocus, Giles fending off incursions with a large cross, while Spike and Xander stood about ten paces away, back to back in the middle of a swarm of vamps, kicking, punching, flailing (Xander doing most of the flailing) and staking till their hands were chalky with dust.

"Come on, Red. We're losing ground here," Spike said through gritted teeth.

Xander had a small vamp in a half nelson and was punching him in the neck when another came out of nowhere and body checked him, sending him sprawling headfirst into a gravestone. Suddenly a light flashed, blinding him momentarily. At first he thought, aneurysm. Then he remembered. Willow's spell.

When he could see again, he found himself on the fucked side of a shimmering translucent wall. Xander got to his feet and lunged at it, banging on it with his fists. He could see his friends shouting at him on the other side but he couldn't hear what they were saying. It was like some kind of mental patient pantomime. Spike had Giles by the lapels and was screaming in his face. Tara and Willow were bent over the old leather-bound spell book, nodding and mouthing incantations like penitents gone berserk.

Xander took a deep breath and threw his body against the wall. No joy. Spike stalked up to him. He looked angry, veins popping in his forehead and neck. He was pointing over Xander's shoulder and saying something Xander couldn't understand. But of course, he knew the gist. He was in serious shit.

He turned around in slow motion, stake raised over his shoulder, and saw five vamps standing in a semi-circle around him, looking like a gang of undertakers who suddenly had the bright idea to kill for business. He lowered his stake hand and tried to relax his shoulders.

"Guys," he said. "We're all men of the world here. Let's talk about this." Then instinct kicked in and he ran full tilt into the woods.

Xander executed a serpentine pattern, head down and shoulders hunched like a running back, dodging branches and fallen limbs. He could hear them coming, crashing through the trees. They were gaining ground. He saw the ground dip away on his right and he dropped and rolled into a small ravine, landing in a patch of tall grass and prickly vines.

He commando-crawled deeper into the underbrush, hoping it was enough to cover him, and stretched out flat on his belly, pressing his face into the loamy earth. Snaky plant tendrils tickled his nostrils and his ears. He could feel dirt adhering to the pulse points at his wrists and throat. His nose was inches away from a rotting log, and he thought he could smell the worms and spiders and centipedes crawling around inside. He took a deep breath and willed himself to slow his heart rate, to become perfectly silent and still. He could hear footsteps approaching, twigs snapping. And then silence. He closed his eyes.

They had to be standing above him on the rise. Xander knew they had scented him, even if they couldn't see him. It was useless to run, useless to stand and fight. He'd dropped his stake somewhere in the woods. He was utterly alone and defenseless. And it all felt so goddamn familiar.

He had one more trick up his sleeve, an old standby. Something he used to do as a kid and which he was doing, now, automatically: retreating into himself, tucking and curling into the farthest corner of his mind, and waiting for the end. They would crow and bray and flash their teeth. They would kick him in the gut till he spit blood. They would haul him up by his shoulders and tear his heart out. But they would never ever have him. Because it was just his body, and he wasn't even there.





Minutes or hours later, Xander sensed hands on his body, rolling him over. He felt like he was being wrapped in cotton batting. Then he was lifted and set upright on the ground. His feet were touching earth, but he couldn't feel his legs. He might have been suspended in space. He opened his eyes and Spike was right there, shouting at him, shaking him by the shoulders. Why was he angry? Xander tried to smile. He was so relieved. Spike was running a wet finger along his collarbone. Blood. Xander didn’t understand. He wanted to say thank you, but he couldn't make his throat work, so he tipped forward and leaned his head into Spike’s chest.

He must have blacked out, because next thing he knew he was in his bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. The light was sharp and bright, and he blinked like he had just stepped out of a cave into sunshine. His temples throbbed, but he couldn't feel pain anywhere else. Which was strange, because Spike was kneeling in front of him and dabbing at the cuts on his chest with a bloody wad of cotton. He saw an open bottle of alcohol on the sink. A glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. He saw his t-shirt crumpled in a ball on the floor. It was mottled with blood and dirt. His jeans looked pretty beat up, too. Rips in the knees and grass stains everywhere.

Spike was standing now. Not looking at Xander. He screwed the cap on the alcohol and pitched the cotton in the trashcan. Then he turned to face him and pulled him up by his armpits. Xander felt stoned. Or like he'd been stonewashed. Faded and soft. Spike wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him walk into the bedroom. Sat him on the bed. Knelt to unlace his shoes and pulled them off one at a time. Then his socks. Xander reached a hand out to touch his face but only got as far as his shoulder. Spike looked up at him. He hadn't turned on the lights, and Xander wished he could see his eyes.

Spike stood and gestured toward Xander's legs, and Xander looked down and started working on the buttons of his pants. When that was done, he lay back and let Spike pull them off by the frayed cuffs. Xander tugged at the waistband of his boxers. He wanted everything gone. Spike hesitated, and then helped him, sliding the thin cotton down his legs and over his ankles. Xander tried to sit up and shift into the middle of the mattress, but his arms were rubber and he had to settle for inching along on his back, using his feet to push himself up the bed.

When his head was on the pillow, he turned his face to look at Spike. He couldn't speak—the long silence was like a weight on his tongue--but he smiled and hoped Spike understood. Spike pulled his shirt off and sat on the edge of the bed, back to Xander. Xander reached a hand out and trailed his fingers down his lower vertebrae, then curled them over his waistband. After awhile, Spike stood and shucked his jeans and lay down next to Xander. It was too hot for the blanket, but Xander knew Spike would want to use it anyway. He watched him sit up and lean down to unroll it from the foot of the bed. He tugged it straight then folded it back so it covered them to the waist.

They lay there for a bit, not touching.

Eventually, Xander turned on his side and rested his forehead on Spike's shoulder. It felt good, cool and smooth. He reached his hand out and skated it over the flat of Spike's belly, feeling the muscles twitch under his palm. His hand wandered lower and brushed the head of his cock. Spike was hard, and Xander slid his hand down to cover him. Spike tensed and in one swift motion flipped him 180 degrees so that he was lying on his other side, facing the wall. Spike wrapped his arm around his shoulder and pulled him back against his chest. Xander's head was tucked into the space between his collarbone and jaw. He felt the weight of Spike's arm lift and then lower again, and his hand come to rest on Xander's forehead.

"Go to sleep, Xander."

Xander closed his eyes and let himself drift.



Xander was standing at the kitchen counter drinking a glass of orange juice and watching the coils heat up inside the toaster. It was late. Almost noon by the stove clock. He’d have to get a move on if he was going to be lawn boy today. He reached a hand up to finger the twin marks on his neck. They had scabbed over in the night and were hot and tender to the touch. Earlier, when he’d looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, he was surprised to see a large purple bruise radiating out from the smallish wounds. He still couldn’t remember the bite.

Xander swayed on his feet and leaned his hip into the counter. His whole body ached. He thought about taking his toast to bed.

Xander heard movement in the bedroom and walked to the fridge, taking a bag of blood out of the door and popping it in the microwave. A minute later, Spike shuffled into the kitchen looking tired and pissed off, eyebrows two dark slashes, hair a mash of blonde curls. Xander always felt a little hormonal surge seeing him like this--naked chest and pouty red mouth--and part of him just wanted to throw a leg over and hump him where he stood.

Spike took a mug off the drain board and moved to stand in front of the microwave. Xander buttered his toast and tried to think of something to say. His palms were sweaty and he set the knife down and wiped them on his pants.

“Sleep okay?”

Spike grunted in reply.

“Bad dreams?”

He seemed to tense at that.

“Spike, I –“

The microwave beeped and Spike took the bag out, sliced it open with a fang, and dumped the contents in his mug. Xander turned to face him. Spike was blowing on the blood to cool it.

“Look at me for a second.”

Spike’s gaze slid up to his neck and stopped there.

“Spike. Why are you –“

Spike slammed the mug on the counter and stalked out of the kitchen. Xander could hear him banging around in the bedroom. When he appeared in the doorway again, he had his hair slicked back into place and was dressed in his uniform, boots to duster.

Xander wanted to say, what the fuck, where are you going, please don’t go, but he kept his mouth shut and his hands locked on the countertop behind him. He felt a nauseating tightness in his gut.

“Call your friends, they’ll want to know you’re okay.”

Xander nodded. A second later, Spike was gone.





Willow dropped by while he was mowing his parents’ lawn. He cut the motor and let her wrap him in a sweaty hug.

“I brought you blue Gatorade."

“Thanks, Will.” Xander gestured toward the front stoop and they walked across the lawn to sit in the shade. Xander drained half the Gatorade. Willow was looking at his bandage, so he peeled it back to let her see.

“Didn’t want mom to freak. It's not that bad.”

“Does it hurt?” Willow asked, touching lightly around the bite mark. "The bruise looks awful."

“A little.” It actually hurt like hell.

“Xander, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes were filling with tears. Xander wrapped an arm around her and pulled her onto his chest. “Tara and I reversed the spell as fast as we could. But you were gone. And Spike—“

“Shh, Will. It’s okay. You get the medallion thingie? From the crypt?”

“Yeah.” Willow sniffled and raised her head. “We got that part right anyway. It was just where Giles said it would be.”

“Then we’re cool. If that crypt had been empty, and if I’d been vamped for nothing, well…my first official act would’ve been to find you and eat you. But I’m here, I’m good. We’re cool.”

“Xander,” Willow tucked her hair behind her ears and turned her body to face him. “Spike said…”

Xander took a slug of his Gatorade and made an effort to swallow. “Don’t listen to Spike. He’s not exactly an expert, Will. He wasn’t there.”

“He saved your life,” she said quietly.

Xander felt like he couldn’t breathe all of a sudden. His neck throbbed and his eyes felt hot. He kept seeing Spike standing in the doorway in his boots. Poised to walk out. And he felt his heart clench into a fist. He stood up and waked over to the mower.

“Xander. He loves you. We all do.”

Xander blinked, looking across the street at the neighbor's ancient rusted-out Camaro and scraggly patch of weed-choked lawn. When he felt like he could talk without crying, he turned around.

“I don’t know what Spike told you, Will. But I’m fine, okay? I’m not looking to commit suicide by vampire. And Jesus Christ. I’m really fucking sick of everyone thinking…ever since Buffy…”

Willow was gazing up at him with the saddest expression, pain and worry written on her face.

“I’m not going anywhere, Will.”

Willow stood up and walked over to him. Put her arms around his waist and her head on his chest. “You might want to say that to Spike.” Then she pulled back and smiled. “And because I’m feeling guilty, I’ll put off the gay conversation for awhile. But, you know. Be prepared.”




When Xander walked into the Summers house, Spike and Dawn were embedded in the sofa and staring at the television with identical expressions of open-mouthed boredom. Dawn’s head was resting on Spike’s shoulder. Neither of them looked up.

“Hey guys, he said, walking into the living room and angling his face to see the screen. “Real World?”

“Worse. Road Rules.” Dawn patted the cushion next to her. “Come, be one of us.”

Xander squeezed himself between Dawn and the couch arm, and Dawn tilted over to lean against him.

“Did you eat?” she asked.

“Yeah. You guys?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s the bot?”

Dawn pointed at the ceiling. “Plugged in.”

“Does that strike anyone else as ironic?”

Dawn and Spike both looked at him, their faces registering the barest blip of mental activity.

“Forget it.”

“Hey guys!” Dawn sat up straight and put a hand on each of their legs. “Braid my hair?”

Xander looked at Spike and caught a tiny flicker of a smile.

“Come on, please?” she said, looking from one to the other.

An hour later, Dawn had four regulation pigtails and three tiny ones in front, courtesy of Spike and a few stray twist-ties. She had fallen asleep with her head on Spike’s knees and her feet tucked under Xander’s legs.

They had switched to the baseball game. Bobby Bonilla was going yard. Spike was affecting total boredom. They had barely exchanged a word since Dawn dropped off.

“I’ll carry her up,” Spike said.

Xander raised his eyebrows. “Okay.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ll be right here.”

Spike gave him a quizzical look then quickly buried it and gathered Dawn in his arms, lifting her like she weighed no more than a beach ball. He turned her so her upside down face was pointing at Xander, mutant pigtails waving.

“Say good night, Dawn. Big faker.”

“Good night, Xander.”

“’Night Dawn.”

Dawn yanked on Spike’s t-shirt.

“Let’s motor, Jeeves.”

Xander watched Spike carry her to the foot of the stairs and then up, taking them by twos. He heard Spike set her down in the hallway, then Spike talking, then the taps running and Dawn chattering incoherently around her toothbrush. A few minutes later, Dawn’s footsteps moved off toward her room and he heard her door shut with a quiet click. The floorboards creaked in the upstairs hall, but Spike didn't come down, and after awhile Xander got up and walked to the foot of the stairs.

Spike was sitting at the top, on the landing, knees bent and feet planted a couple of steps below.

“Spike.”

Spike looked up.

“Get your ass down here.”

Spike slowly rose to his feet and walked down the steps, sliding his hand on top of the banister. When he got to the bottom stair, Xander put one hand on the newel post and one on the wall, blocking his path.

“Move, you git.”

“I have to tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Thank you. For saving my life.”

Spike gave him a tight smile. “No problem.”

“I’m grateful.”

“You should be.”

“Spike. I’m saying, I was an idiot. To give up like that.”

Spike didn't look up, but his expression seemed to soften. "You should have screamed bloody murder," he said quietly. "You should have known I'd be right behind you."

"I know it. I know."

Spike’s eyelashes were long against his cheeks. Xander wanted to touch his face and kiss him, but he felt shy.

“Can I touch you?” he asked.

Spike looked up then. “Don’t be such a bloody girl,” he said, and he smiled, giving Xander the full force of his blue eyes, and then he was leaning down and Xander was reaching up and they were kissing. Without breaking the kiss, Spike stepped down to his level and Xander wrapped him in his arms and felt his heart beating against his ribs.

Xander wanted to say something more, but Spike was deeply engaged with his tongue, so he let his body and his hands and his mouth act it out in an slow, deliberate pantomime, I love you I love you I love you.