Out Of The Blue
Spike waited.
Who knows exactly how it started? Gray days turn into black nights, events blend and merge. Memories tainted by madness, knocked free of the space–time continuum. He remembered Buffy coming to him in the basement of the school, taking him out of there, bringing him into the apartment. There was some shouting, and Spike was shown to a bed in a room.
There had been some preliminary preparations before he took up residence. Blue blankets were tacked up over the window, colouring and filtering the sunlight. Gravity had caused it to sag a little, and Spike whiled away the daytime watching the yellow stripe march itself across the floor. Every inch that much closer to when he came home.
Even that first time (if he was remembering correctly which time was the first time) Spike had listened to him bang about, cooking, watching television, making a few phone calls. Then, the door to Spike´s room opened.
"You didn´t eat." Not an accusation, not a question. Pure statement of fact. Spike didn´t bother answering.
"You need to eat." Spike could smell the blood in the mug, piping hot and fresh from the microwave. He kept watching where the strip of yellow had disappeared, under the bed, like maybe it would appear again, come out and retrace its route. The mug was waved under his nose, and he felt his lip twitch.
"If you don´t eat, she´s going to kill me." A hand caressed Spike´s face, and lifted his chin. He couldn´t help it, he made eye contact. Deep, dark, like pools of water in the forest. Deep enough to drown him. He could lose himself in them, submerge in them and never come up, share the emptiness inside himself with that he saw in those brown eyes.
It became too much to handle, Spike had to close his eyes. Shut inside his own skull, with only his own loneliness, it was marginally easier to handle. He leaned into the warm hand, let the cup part his lips. Life is within the cup, processed, bagged, microwaved, shipped, but still life. Spike drank deeply. It wasn´t enough to fill the void, it did nothing but intensified the ache, that reminder of what he´d lost. Or gained, depending on the perspective.
Spike´s head fell forward, resting on denim, a hip bone underneath. He could smell him better, the sweat and dust from the work site. Underneath it all, his arousal. Spike knew what came next. Always had, even the first time. His hand reached up and traced the belt, located the buckle. Spike´s fingers moved as if they had a mind of their own, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping.
Fingers curled in Spike´s hair, and for a split second he thought he was going to be pulled back, tossed back onto the bed, rejected. It struck a little fear into his heart, but then he was being pulled, closer to his intended goal.
Spike wrapped his hand around the shaft, and heard a little hiss from above him. The fingers in his hair tightened their grip, he didn´t know if it was a signal to stop or to continue. If this was the first time (maybe it was? who could tell anymore) it probably meant stop. Or ´remember that vampires have super strength and the human penis is fragile´. He started a gentle stroking rythym, but the hand in his hair pushed his mouth towards the tip. Spike licked, gently, teasingly around the tip.
Those damn fingers. Spike was pulled closer, his own hand around the shaft had to give way as it disappeared down his throat. Spike let him piston in and out of his mouth for a while, hoping he would lose control quickly and there would be no second act. Spike used his hands to help further this along, fondling across his buttocks and tracing patterns down into the cleft. Spike dragged his hands down the outside of his thighs, and then up the inside, cupping his balls.
This was where, if he was lucky, Spike would make him come. This time, he wasn´t lucky. His head was pulled back, and the order came. "Get in the shower."
There was no blood on his clothes from a forgotten mug tipped over in the heat of the moment. This couldn´t be the first time. Is it current, happening in the here–now, or is it just a flashback? Does it matter? Yes, it does. Remembering, keeping events distinct in one´s mind, that´s the key to sanity. The wall feels real under Spike´s hand as he walks on unsteady legs to the bathroom, a spot of warmth on the small of his back where the hand that guides him rests. As if he didn´t know the path. Maybe he doesn´t, maybe this is another remembrance of the first time. No, it must be a real–time event, memories are never as warm as the reality.
Spike started taking his clothes off. This was real, a new event, and he tried to capture it in his mind as distinct. Dusk had fallen, and the light of the street lamp made everything in the bathroom blue. Spike stood there as he puttered around, getting the water the right temperature, taking off his own clothes. Finally, Spike was ushered into the shower.
Spike only got to enjoy the hot water for a few seconds, crowded in the small space, he got pushed against the wall. There was a pause, and Spike heard the cap of the lube pop open. The first time, there wasn´t a convenient bottle nearby. That was why he remembered the first time.
Spike leaned his forehead against the cool tile and rested one foot on the edge of the tub. All the better to be buggered, my dear. One finger wiggled its way inside of Spike, then a second. They were pulled out, and Spike heard himself whimper. "Shhh," Spike was told, and one arm encircled his waist.
The waiting, finally, ended. Something inside Spike´s newfound soul stopped searching and rested easy. The warmth of the human pressed against his back spread through him, and he closed his eyes. Spike´s hips were pushing back of their own volition, but the arm around his waist kept him from pulling the cock any farther into himself. Spike wasn´t in charge, not this time. Never had been, as far as he could remember. Spike closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the tile. He had nowhere important to be at the moment.
Slowly, Spike was penetrated, ever so slowly the invading cock was withdrawn. The arm around Spike´s waist dropped lower, and started to caress, stroking faster and faster while the cock inside him moved so slowly. Spike´s body couldn´t handle it anymore, and with a groan he orgasmed. The arm went back around his waist, holding him tightly as he came, keeping the cock in his ass buried to the hilt.
As Spike´s own cock went limp, the one in his ass began to pick up speed. Spike began to pump his hips back and forth, to the urgings of the hands that now clutched at his hipbones. Quickly, too quickly, Spike was fully impaled and held as he was filled.
Then, Spike was emptied and pushed into the wall of the shower. Spike didn´t have to be told what to do now. If Spike turned around and tried to touch him, hold on, reclaim a bit of that peace he´d found only a few minutes before, he´d be pushed back into the wall, a lot more forcefully. At least, that´s what had happened the first time, and a few more times for good measure. Spike waited for him to finish washing himself and leave the shower. When the glass door slid closed behind him, Spike moved into the spray. The hot water had all but run out. The lukewarm water only evoked more memories of the heat that had just left him, that now stood on the other side of the frosted glass towelling off his hair.
A little part of Spike´s mind scolded himself for giving in again. Spike told that part to lay off the pipe. Spike had to keep giving, hoping, eventually, maybe he´ll get something back that will fill the emptiness inside him for more than a few minutes.
As Xander left the bathroom, Spike heard his voice say, ´Not this time´. Hallucination or reality, didn´t matter. Truth is truth.
The End
