Comfort and Hunger
Not mine. Never will be.
It must have been the smell of his blood. Hot and fresh, wet and rich, thick and human.
It must have been the heat coming off his bruised body. Smoke and fire and dizzy desire.
It could have been the warmth in his eyes. Deep, dark, thickly lashed eyes that watched him constantly. Filled with scorn, hate, derision … and something else.
Spike cornered Xander in his bedroom, in the basement. In the room under the house, surrounded by dirt as old as he was, could have been around before he was born. His palm covered Xander’s mouth and Spike licked up the side of Xander’s face.
“Shhhh … shhhh … quiet pet.”
Spike’s voice was gravel and rust, caressing time. He pressed Xander against drywall and paint and cement. His hand pulled at denim and cotton. He filled Xander’s mouth with fingers, felt the way for his cock later. Spike’s tongue lapped at Xander’s neck. Found just where he was hurt, Spike sucked away dirt, asphalt, chipped glass, splinters of wood.
Not examining his own motives, because if anyone asked he didn’t even like the bloke. Didn’t care if Xander lived or died. Didn’t want him and he sure as hell didn’t need him. Didn’t care for the quips and snark. The barbs they exchanged without a moment’s pause upon sight and smell … it didn’t remind him of anything else.
Didn’t make him miss anyone else.
Didn’t make him remember what it was like to fight and bitch. Whine and hurt, tease and touch, stare and glare and snark and … fuck. Fuck all damn night long until it was too late to go get something *someone* to eat before dawn and they ended up sleeping hungry.
This was better.
“Hush now. Let me make it good, Xander.”