Not Conversing With Dead People
He could still smell Anya in the apartment, despite the fact that she'd left hours ago. The sounds of the television that she never turned off were dramatic muffles through his closed door. His clothes felt dirty and old, probably because he hasn't changed since being at the site yesterday afternoon.
In his mirror, he's not sure who the man in the grown up suit is. Maybe a less drunk version of his dad; minus the grayness and disrespect for all women. Less drunk, but not completely sober. With the removal of the jacket, the feeling of pretend pride slips from his shoulders. Falling to the floor in a sad bundle of expensive make believe.
He wipes his jaw, light scruff scratching his palm, the spit leaving the slight odor of beer. Button by button, single breast-pocketed cotton parts down the middle, revealing chest to stomach. The shirt is finally untucked and discarded to join the jacket.
The pants are foreboding, buckle and fly mocking him with the needing of an effort he's almost too exhausted to supply. There's a rush of movement behind his reflection, but there's nothing there when he turns. He presses his eyes closed and opens them wide for a moment, a strong blink to clear his vision. There's nothing but him. Spike's out, it being night and him a creature of it.
He's alone. Present story of his life. Made to come home from a hard day, receiving a warm greeting kiss from his booze and the booze alone. He lets himself fall, arms out, face down on the mattress with a groan.
Wriggling up to the pillows and flips onto his back. Again to be faced with his reflection, laying on the ceiling, looking down on him from the mirrors Anya made him put up long ago.
Every day he says he'll take them down, every night he goes to sleep staring at himself. With a sigh of disgust he makes for the buckle, the slide of leather somewhat pleasant as he pulls it from his waist. Chucks it off the bed, not caring where it lands.
After button and fly are undone, he slips in and makes the necessary adjustments for comfort's sake. His fingers linger. His hand holds. Tightening grip. A long blink of ecstasy. The image of Spike lain out beside him, watching with his bleached head propped on his hand, is shown in the mirrors above. Xander gasps and stops.
Although he's alone in the bed, the mirrors paint a different picture. Spike naked. Spike smiling. Ceiling Xander looks a lot happier. Xander wonders if he's fallen asleep or passed out or just drank too much. But he feels awake and strangely sobered.
The well-muscled Spike is on his side, biting his lip and encouraging Xander with no words. Xander strokes harder, squeezing the hard flesh, drawing out the motion. Xander can't even bring himself to blink, in case the surprisingly exciting image should fade.
As the friction builds between soft hand and hard cock, Spike's amusement seems to grow. Xander almost expects the vampire to reach over, he's waiting, waiting for mirror Spike to do something and why the hell is just watching with that ridiculously arousing expression?
Xander moves with more aggression, more speed, shallow breathing. And the heat's too strong and Spike's eyes are anticipating and the bed's so big and the heat, the heat and oh fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut as he comes, Spike just as vivid in the picture in his head.
When he opens his eyes, he's got a warm, sticky hand and no Spike above him. With a deep breath he swears he'll take the damn mirrors down tomorrow.