Misspandypants (misspandypants) wrote in bloodclaim,

Most beautiful ugly thing Part 2/2 (with part 1 at the beginning)

This is the complete 'The most beautiful ugly thing'. Part 1 is at the top as a reminder, and Part 2 is underneath.

Title: Most beautiful ugly thing Part 1 and 2 (NEW)(COMPLETE)
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC 17 for adult themes, sex scenes.
Warnings: Angst. But there's a hopeful ending...
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money, wish they were and wish I was.
Summary: Spike and Xander find a way to deal with Buffy's death. Only Xander gets more than he bargained for.


Spike on his knees, fists pressing into his sockets so hard that for a moment everyone thinks he’ll push his eyes right through the back of his head. And he isn’t grieving quietly – his whole body shakes with the intensity.

It’s the most beautiful ugly thing Xander has ever seen.

He wants to make it better and he wants to make it worse. That’s how it starts.

But today is going to be the day Xander walks away. He knows they’ve just been using each other. He knows there’s no future in this thing, knows they’ll only end up hurting more. Because it’s not healthy, this redirection thing. This fucking each other so hard that Spike’s chip fires and fires but he presses harder because Xander wants the pain. If it hurts outside then it won’t hurt on the inside.

Only thing is, now it hurts outside and in. And ain’t that conforming to a stereotype. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like if they made it to a bed. Because Spike’s fucked him against tombstones and graves, on a park bench and a children’s swing set. But they’ve never been in a bed, and Xander finds himself wanting it.

So he’s at Spike’s crypt to tell him. That it’s over. It’s not the first time he tries, but he promises himself it’s the last. Xander is ready to stop hurting, he’s going to tell Spike that it’s time he moved on too. It’s dangerous, this thing between them. Only Xander’s scared because he doesn’t have the words – never has. For all the talking, he never really says much.

Xander looks at the crypt and gets hard. Feels like just thinking about Spike gets him ready for it, gets him hot. He bets Spike can smell it.

It’s no surprise when the door is flung open and Xander is pulled inside, pushed against the wall, pressed against stone and already naked skin. Xander means to tell him no, tell him stop. But then Spike’s pulling open his zipper and holding his cock so tight and it hurts hurt hurts hurts and he can’t find the words, can’t remember the speech he rehearsed.


The first time they had sex like this, Xander didn’t show up to work. The scratches along his back went from below his knees and all the way up to the neckline of his shirt. Xander thinks that they could probably get Spike’s fingerprints off the bruises on his ass. Xander loved it then, wanted more. Wanted to know how long his teeth-marks marred the small of Spike’s back, wanted to know if Spike’s tongue would bleed again if he sucked it hard enough.

Only Xander isn’t stupid, at least not as stupid as everyone gives him credit for. He knows this is wrong bad crazy, knows hurting each other isn’t going to bring her back. Worst of all, knows she wouldn’t approve, wouldn’t understand. At least he thinks he knows – sometimes he gets the feeling they didn’t know her as well as they thought.

Xander realises now he made a mistake – coming here, the first hand reminder of how close and how far apart they are. And he’s almost coming and Spike is on his knees and yellow eyes never once look up, focus instead on sucking the life out of him, literally. It’s ironic that Spike is the one on his knees.

And Xander realises why he can’t say no, why he promises and promises but can never follow through.

Hating Spike feels better than loving anyone ever has. Doesn’t notice he’s crying until he tastes the salt in his mouth. But he notices the moment Spike knows, feels the tension, feels the increase in suction, the teeth that scrape along his sensitive underside. Because this isn’t about emotions, him and Spike, this is about hard and fast and right now and maybe never again.

It’s only when he realises that he’ll take whatever Spike dishes out, take it all and beg for more, that he says no. It’s so quiet he thinks maybe Spike won’t hear, almost hopes for it.

The sound of his head smacking against the stone wall is loud only Xander doesn’t hear it, doesn’t notice because everything else is breaking too.

Before he knows it he’s home. He sleeps on the floor because it reminds him of the one time they fell asleep at the crypt two feet shy of the bed.

He doesn’t see Spike for months, though he knows Dawnie still does. He often wants to, but never asks.

Xander leaves his stake at home and walks home after dark. Puts a “Welcome” mat at the front door and keeps his windows open. That’s when he smells the Marlboro smoke, and thinks that maybe it’s no coincidence that he’s still alive.

Smiles for the first time in three months, eight days and fifty-three minutes.

Part 2

Spike knows this isn’t about feeling, at least not that way. He’d been sitting in the puddle of blood that formed after an hour of banging his head against the stone sarcophagus. Xander’d walked in, sat him up, slapped his face. It felt good.

But now - it’s a subtle change, a blink-and-you’ll-miss it type of thing. At the beginning there was minimal contact. It was hands and cocks and mouths, never in between. Xander would come with his body concave - even at the height of passion he was trying to get away.

One Sunday Spike realises that Xander’s leg is wrapped around his waist. Two days later, his arms are clutching at Spike’s neck. The day after that, his hand - always held flat against Spike’s chest as if ready to push him away – fists Spike’s shirt so hard and suddenly that his nails break through and draw blood. Spike thinks he should’ve stopped it all then, but he has always been weak. Because sometimes with Xander he forgets. Forgets her, forgets about the world pressing down and squeezing until he has nothing left. Sometimes with Xander he feels like maybe one day he might be whole again.

This is about pain and hurt and not being able to leave but not knowing how to stay.

Spike knows why Xander keeps coming back, why the bruises and the scratches and the pain don’t drive him away, but make him come harder and faster and louder every time.

He’s so sure until he isn’t anymore.

He doesn’t know exactly when, but knows something went very wrong. It’s never been Xander but his mind fills the gaps and it suddenly is - face and eyes and hands and toes for fuck’s sake everywhere, touching nothing but feeling everything.

He’s finally afraid. Afraid of what might happen if he isn’t wanted again.

It takes him three months to realise he’s more afraid of never knowing.

For weeks he stands in the rain and smokes his cigarette and promises that tonight will be the night he finally does it, finally goes in and says something, anything. Thinks it will be worth it just to hear Xander’s voice, even in outrage.

The rain stops and Spike thinks it’s a sign. So he walks all the way to the door, scrubs the dirt off his shoes. Runs back to the crypt and gets so drunk he doesn’t remember again.

Doesn’t remember picking up the frail looking teenager that’s now naked and shivering next to him. Doesn’t remember why she smells like Marlboros. Watches her heart beat through her chest. Looks up and straight into Xander’s eyes. He’s never seen anyone look so disappointed, and he’s never heard Xander laugh that way. Then Xander’s gone. Probably forever.

Doesn’t remember getting drunk the next night either, or the one after that. Doesn’t remember wanting to see the sunrise, but does remember Dawnie coming in just in time. Or too early. Maybe too late. She looks at him with half pity and half disgust.

Spike has never felt lower before.

He knows why. Suddenly he realises that perhaps he’s known all along. A coward – he never thought he’d see that day. But he is a coward, he is and he can admit it now.

Only it’s too late.

Everything is ruined, but he still stands outside Xander’s house and smokes his cigarette and sniffs the air hoping that the open window will let through the smell that is so Xander, hoping it will remind him and hoping it won’t.

He misses the boy. God, he’s so fucked and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say because as always, it’s all gone just when he’s found it.

When Xander marches down the stairs and grabs him around the shirt collar, he’s surprised. Surprised, but instantly harder than the wood Xander presses against and into his chest.

“Why?” asks Xander, voice strong but wavering.

Spike shrugs, smiles wryly. He watches in mild fascination as his hand, clearly not following the orders his brain is giving it no stop don’t touch don’t touch reaches out. And suddenly his thumb is just barely touching the cleft in Xander’s chin. Heaven feels like Xander not pushing him away.

It’s a slow journey along the unshaven skin to Xander’s cheekbone, but Spike thinks he’s never felt skin so soft. He swipes gently along the deep blue circles that suddenly stand out so brightly against the unusual paleness. And before he knows it, his thumb is gently swiping against Xander’s lips.

Spike catches Xander’s sigh on his fingers. The boy deflates – air rushing out, a relaxing of his stance. He lets go of the shirt and brings his hands up to cup Spike’s face instead.

Then they’re spinning around, Xander pressing Spike against his door and pressing mouth to mouth. This kiss is different to any they’ve shared – there’s still that passion, that ripping, burning, flaming, tearing passion that settles in Spike’s stomach before tearing up and down his veins. But there’s something else. It’s more tender than harsh. Their teeth don’t clash. Their lips don’t bleed. It’s soft and slow, with an underlying thrum of need.

It isn’t ugly, the way their encounters always seem to be. But Spike doesn’t allow himself to think it’s beautiful.

When Xander withdraws, Spike doesn’t have time to stop a groan of disappointment. But Xander stops only a breath away.

“So,” Xander says, “We should have that talk.”

Spike looks at him, blinking, shocked.

“Ok. Later,” Xander adds. “Bed first?”

Spike is worried – they’ve never made it to a bed before. But the pleading look Xander gives him is enough.

The next morning, warm and snug between the covers, back pressed to Xander’s front, Spike thinks about pulling away, leaving. Thinks about being frightened of what could happen, now that they’re in the bed. Tenses.

But then Xander sighs in his sleep and throws an arm over Spike’s body. Spike decides to stay.

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