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[personal profile] sevendeadlyfun
Pairing: Spike, Xander, Faith

Rating: NC-17 overall

A/N: I'm shocked this is actually here. I figured it would take longer to get into a coherent form. Huh. Go me.

Summary: It's the stuff you don't see that counts. Three people, a Hellmouth, and what happens when you can't hold it together. And when you can...

He’s always the first one home. The others stay out ‘til the morning, fighting the good fight. Not him. He does his bit and packs it in. He can’t remember now if this is what he wants, or if he just does it by rote.

They live together, which still shocks him. Oh not Xander so much. No matter how much the boy tries he can’t quite kill the light inside him. Even living a shadow life, Xander still shines. Faith, though…

She doesn’t trust him. He can’t work out if it’s because he’s a vampire or because she doesn’t trust anyone. She’s no princess, the other Slayer. His Slayer now, he supposes, since he lives here and works here. But, never his Slayer in his mind the way that Buffy was his.

Buffy had a need, a hunger as potent as any vampires. She needed people, needed their love. He wonders if that’s what drew him in. His need reflected back, only gorged to overfull instead of constantly starving. Full bellies don’t under the passive hate that comes with never having enough, Spike thinks as his cup spins in the microwave.

The door opens and the snick of the deadbolt echoes like a gunshot. Faith is home, hours early. Disappointing night in the cemeteries or she found more than she could handle. Either is rare these days. The spell that diffused the Slayer’s power seems to have enhanced, rather than diminished, the original Slayers.

“Bad night,” he asks diffidently.

“Nah.” Faith shakes her head, dark hair rustling slightly around her face. It’s longer now, almost halfway down her back. He likes that, the same he way he likes Xander’s longer hair. Their hair has something his doesn’t, moves and twists in ways that call to him. He idly wonders what it would be like to wrap himself up in that dark pelt, let it coil around him like a living thing.

“Just tired tonight,” Faith calls out, heading towards the back of the apartment.

He thinks about that a lot. He has a lot of free time and he uses it to think. Angel’s advice, the last bit of family wisdom in a failed family. He held it together, got them out. The alleyway broke them both, somehow. Maybe it was the dead friends. He still sees them and he thinks maybe Angel does too. Watching Illyria shift restlessly from Big Blue to Fred and back again while they waited for her to die. Seeing Gunn, already broken and tossed aside like an empty bottle.

But Angel said to think. So Spike does. He thinks about being sandwiched between two dark haired, dark-eyed bodies, their heat sinking into his dead flesh. He thinks of the brush of Xander’s hand on his, and the look in that one eye. Spike wants to know what that look means.

After the alley, and a stilted reunion with Buffy, he tried to push this away. He’d had enough of being convenient. Even now, he examines all his relationships for flaws. He tries to find one moment where he was more than just there, a body to fuck or to use as a shield. There’s never enough certainty in his memories.

The door rattles again. Xander now, and Spike tries to shake away his thoughts. They’re sticky, cobwebs draped over his face. If anyone could suss out what he’s thinking, Xander’d be it. This is their third go-round as flatmates, and Spike suddenly wonders if maybe Xander is the one person on the planet who actually knows him.

“Bad night,” he asks again.

“Nah,” comes the identical reply. “Got enough baddies off the mean streets, thought I’d turn in.”

But, Xander doesn’t turn in. He stops, standing close and just looking. There’s heat in that gaze and Spike shifts uneasily. Faith is beautiful in that way predators always are, grace and musk barreling ahead of her. Xander is beautiful in that way prey always is, drops of pain and need leaking out. But, now Spike is the prey and the light pins him down for inspection.

“Bad night,” Xander returns and it isn’t a question.

“Always,” Spike says back, aiming for flippant. “ ‘M reliably informed by His Broodiness that vampires with souls only get two good nights a year. I’m saving up for a week-end of debauchery.”

“Be sure to call me when you cash those in,” Xander retorts, hand reaching out.

Spike’s skin tingles even before Xander brushes against the back of his hand. Just like that, and he’s ready, willing, and too bloody eager. His body stirring into a semblance of life, from this single touch.

Then it’s over. Xander’s yawning and stretching, skin tight over muscle and bone. A few pleasantries exchanged and Xander’s off, to shower and to sleep. Spike follows, lust stupid and groggy from a full belly. He reminds himself to call Angel later today. Maybe there’s a bit more family wisdom left in that particular bank.

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August 2011

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