Chapter Rating: PG-13 (language)
Story Rating: R
Summary: Xander wants Spike. The hyena knows it. Tuesday was the last straw.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. At all.
Warnings: Hyena!Xander, Rough sex later.
Chapter One: http://qwerty-lee.livejournal.com/1421.html#cutid1
His righteous indignation seeped away as he stepped into the cold night air, as he knew it would. And in its place was… Something else. Something he wasn’t willing to call worry. But it felt like worry, just the same. Tension in the pit of his gut pulled him tight and anxious, so he yanked out his pack of cigarettes, searching his pockets for his lighter. Boy was acting funny yesterday, too. And Tuesday. Tuesday was when he really started losing it.
They’d finished their route, and as they often did these days, they walked back into town together in total silence. It wasn’t so much that they couldn’t talk without fighting. No, they’d begrudgingly gotten used to each other long ago, and while they often traded jibes before their patrol, they were usually left too exhausted afterwards to even try. It was more… Friction. A crackle of something between them that kept them both uneasy. Spike felt it. Hell, he’d felt it from the moment Angel tried to use him as bait. He’d taken one look at those dark, angry eyes and felt something that tugged at him like his need for blood.
He was still feeling it. Still buzzing and snapping and twitching with it. Like an annoying, brown-eyed itch he had yet to scratch. He refused to call it anything, because every time he tried to pin it down to a name, it always felt too much like want to call it anything else. And the Big Bad does not feel anything close to ‘want’ for the Useless Scoobie.
They used to snap at each other to relieve it. Now, too tired to think of something to say, they let it hang between them in silence. It was torture. But at least it wasn’t fighting.
Neither of them could drudge up the effort for their usual spats, especially not tonight. Xander looked like he had a headache or something. He was wounded, for one thing; ugly green and yellow shirt clawed to pineapple-printed ribbons and spattered with very tasty-smelling blood. The cuts were shallow, so whatever fledge decided to have at him obviously wound up dust before they could get a taste. But it was more than that. He was worn out, eyes shallow and glassy where they normally brimmed with that deep, dark heat. Vaguely, Spike wondered how many jobs he had right now. He didn’t say anything, as usual. Mostly because he’d promised himself he wouldn’t give a damn.
His face was pale, and his lips were chapped, and he looked almost sick for a human, but that was another thing Spike didn’t say. He should’ve. In fact, he should’ve said anything but what he did say.
His lips moved on their own. “You’re bleedin’ all over the sidewalk.” He muttered in his direction, covering concern with a snarl. He was the Big Bad, damn it. He didn’t fucking worry about a Scoobie with a boo-boo. “Just about every fledge in town’s gonna follow your scent like breadcrumbs.”
Flinching a little at that, the boy, carded one hand through his tousled hair and flipped a stake into the other. “Then I’ll be sure to cover my walls with gingerbread. And preheat my oven.”
“Right.” He snorted a little, watching him out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t even trying to cover that wound. Annoyed, he shucked his duster from his shoulders, tossing it to the kid as if it was of no consequence. “Wear that ‘til we get there, yeah?”
Stopping in his tracks, Xander caught the duster fast, staring at it, then him. “Why?”
“’Cause I don’t feel like savin’ your worthless arse from another round of fledges tonight, alright? Just put it on.”
The boy looked stunned. Fine. Yeah, strange, the Big Bad doing a good deed. He didn’t need to make a fuss of it.
“Go on.” Spike prodded. But he stopped there when he saw those eyes.
Something was flickering in those eyes. Something that made his throat go dry and his nerves twitch. He shuddered, barely noticeable, then forced himself rigid. Kid was staring right at him after all. So he watched him intently as he pulled the duster over his shoulders. It was tight, but it hung over his form easily, and it covered the cuts enough to dull the scent with that of leather.
He could still smell the blood. Taste it in the back of his throat.
“Let’s go.” He muttered, scowling a little and turning away.
For the rest of the walk, he watched every shadow, tense with the scent still palpable, still mouthwatering. And when Xander gave the duster back, he was barely back to the crypt before he was shoving his face into the leather.
Snapping out of the memory, he swallowed hard at the thought of that scent. That was no ordinary human blood. It couldn’t be. It was practically addictive, which was ridiculous, because if any damn Happy Meal should be addictive, it shouldn’t be the boy. Slayer, perhaps. Not her only mortal minion.
If anything, Harris’ blood should be watered down, given how much of it he sheds on a nightly basis.
Instead, it was heavy and bitter and stinging with that iron taste that left him dizzy sometimes Thick, warm, he couldn’t believe how good that pain smelled. Delicious. The crème de la crème of vampire cuisine. He couldn’t even stand looking at him now, afraid he’d lose his head and lunge for the kid if he got too close.
He shook it off again, marveling at how easily distracted he was these days. Proof he was going soft, no doubt. Drawing himself up, he sneered at his own thoughts and slipped into Xander’s building.
God… Nuzzling his nose into the leather bomber jacket he’d swiped earlier that day, Xander felt his lips curl into the wry grin he’d had trouble getting rid of since he’d completely lost his mind.
The apartment was now littered with ashtrays, piles of cigarettes smoldering in each one. Spike’s brand, which he’d found by scent. He’d lit cheap wax candles to emulate the smell of the crypt, and yanked the blinds closed to block out the sun. Now, he was curled up on the couch in a stolen leather jacket.
Licking his fingers every once in a while, to taste the blood of the man he’d stolen it from.
The place was starting to smell like Him. Good.
I have gone completely insane… Anya always said I would if I gave in to you…
The thought of her made him close his eyes. He should’ve known the end was near the day she packed her things and left a note that said “I have tried very hard, but you and I both know I cannot share with her anymore.” That was four months ago. She was the only one who noticed, wasn’t she?
She was the only one who ever noticed something was wrong.
You must smell like Always, or He will not know you.
I don’t think he’ll know me anyway… He grinned, more excited by the thought than he should be, and a soft, barking giggle trickled from his lips again. I don’t think he’ll know me at all…
You must make him know you as Pack and Mate-
He doesn’t want to know me… He shoved his face further into his jacket to cover that annoyance. He protected us. That does not make him your Goddamn Mate-
He is our Mate because he protects, and he is worthy, and his scent makes our heart leap! She snarled through his mind so loud he flinched. He Is My Always!
“Ch’yeah. Okay. That’s called a crush-” He snorted aloud, only to be cut off by the scent, the true scent, of Spike. Barely five floors down, and heading his way. “Shit.” Hissing softly, he curled up tighter in his little ball, stuffing his face into the leather of the jacket.
You don’t smell good enough.
I don’t think that’s what we have to worry about here…
Another giggle escaped, slow and easy. God… He felt high. High, and a little loony. Breathing in a deep, happy breath, he stretched and yawned, letting the jacket fall from his shoulders. Spike’s here. Good. He’s hungry, and it’s good to fuck before a hunt. Gets the blood pumping.
Not that he’s going to-
“Shit.” He whispered it again, pushing to his feet to blow out the candles.