winterlive | Affected 29

Hey, folks. Chapter 29 of Affected on the block today, and plot, plot, plot. See more under the cut.
As always, I own none of these characters, and

lady_alatariel_ is the best beta in the history of the world.

Previously, on Affected.

Out in the main room, breakfast got cold, and a blinking red light waited.

"It was just a boil, love." Spike tossed his keys on the end table as they entered the apartment with a baffled yet affectionate smile.

"It was a tumor, Spike!" Xander insisted for the sixth time since they'd left the free clinic. The bulbous object they were discussing had been on the arm of a man Xander had been near-crawling into Spike's lap to avoid when they'd been waiting for the doctor. Spike hadn't minded, but insisted on knowing the cause, and had burst out laughing when Xander told him. Xander had shushed but, alas, to no avail.

"You're mental, you know that?" Spike's voice drifted into the hall as he walked into the kitchen, and Xander snorted derisively at the obvious hypocrisy.

"Excuse me, but who was the one that stared down that big guy who was eyeballing us in the lobby?" He peeled off his jacket, boots and helmet and set them in their usual places, then hung up Spike's keys.

"Starin' at you in the hall, you mean. He fancied you and you know it, you incorrigible flirt!"

Xander just smiled to himself and followed Spike into the kitchen. Really, he was thankful for the banter. Spike's spirits were looking up, and after this morning... well, let's just say the road to happiness is paved in latex.

Once more, in a long line of similar decisions, Xander elected not to think about this morning. Spike had been very weird, and very scary, and generally not in control at all, which led to much more frightening thoughts of mental instability and what else might set him off. What he might do, if he should happen to be set. Try as he might, Xander could not stop his mind from replaying Angel's dire warnings about Spike's capacity for violence, and even though he didn't trust the ominous man, the faint aura of familiarity about him seemed somehow to lend credence to his claim. Xander was sure that, if he thought about it, he could pin it down, but there never seemed to be a quiet time to do so, and he wasn't sure he really wanted to anyway.

Yes, preferable by far to submerge himself in the very real understanding that Spike had been absolutely right. They had not been safe, and safety was right up there with puppies and Christmas on the list of Good Things To Have. Condoms were an absolute must from now on, and if using them with nerd-like diligence just so happened to make Spike happy, then use them he would.

So what if he had fingerprint shaped bruises on his arms? Only Spike would ever see. And they'd be gone soon. And Spike was only ever worried about his safety.

The bone-deep weirdness of his situation – living with a guy he barely knew in a foreign country, newly gay and creeped out by strangers bearing portents – gnawed at his mind. He felt the strong urge to talk with someone about it, to pour all his thoughts out of his mind until they made some kind of sense, so he knew if he was being stupid or reckless. Someone who would sit him down and point out gently, but clearly, where his mistakes were being made, someone he felt comfortable with.

Someone, his mind sighed, with red hair, the ability to help me pass math, and more adorableness than a thousand baby birds.

God, I miss her.

Walking into the kitchen, Xander saw something that allowed him, with great relief, to push his dark thoughts into a corner of his mind, lock them in there and barricade the door.

Eggs, flour and a large bowl littered the counter, and a giant waffle iron was taking up much too much space on the kitchen island. Spike poured milk into a measuring cup, held it at eye level and looked at it critically, then dumped it into the bowl. Spike had evidently, despite it being dusk, decided to make breakfast.

"Hey, waffly goodness," Xander pointed out approvingly. Breakfast was good anytime, in the world of Xander. He walked up to Spike, took the milk bottle out of his hand and drank some before returning it to the fridge.

"Hey," Spike protested mildly. "Dirty little bugger."

"You drank out of it this morning."

"Hardly the point."

"You have a point?"

"Yeah. Wanna see?"

Spike smirked and Xander laughed, then left Spike to curse at the metal measurers for being too metal-y while he went to the living room to hunt for something good to put on the stereo. His sneakers squeaked on the red-varnished hardwood, and he approached the tall, black cabinet with a fun-creepy sense of foreboding. He was about to open a rock star's music stash. It was like opening Capone's glove compartment. The well-oiled hinges swung smoothly open, and Xander was faced with piles upon piles of completely disorganized music.

Skimming the sides, he noted more than a few surprising titles. Shoved among the haphazard stacks of plastic cases were Beethoven, Wagner and Vivaldi. Under them, The Clash, The Cure, and The Verve. Xander noted strong music with deep baselines, thumping, gut-deep, all hips and tongue, and those weren't a shock. Punk, rock, grunge, and the impressive selection of early Beatles, those seemed to fit the Spike he knew. The occasional interspersion of light strings, emo and trip hop, however... those were something that set him back on his rubber heels, and made him consider.

This man with whom he had fallen into some weird, smudged domesticity was very complex. He had depth, much more than the brash exterior would seem to suggest, more than the little bit of pop psychology would draw from that. Sure, Xander would guess that on some level he was insecure, and donned this punk persona to escape that, but he was also the kind of guy who unabashedly watched soap operas, who made breakfast at five in the afternoon, who – and Xander blushed to think of this – had sex with his whole being, not afraid to show his heart, even to a total stranger. Spike, Xander realized, was probably the most fearless man he'd ever met. So, insecure? Not so much.

Xander knew something about insecure. Ten minutes he'd spent staring at these stacks of CD's, and even though Spike had bought every single one, and therefore probably wouldn't object to anything he chose, he could easily come up with reasons why each one revealed his inner lameness. But Xander was used to feeling insecure, and had a tried and tested method of dealing with it – avoidance. Purposefully, he let his gaze wander, until he noticed a small black box near the phone, blinking at him.

"Hey, Spike?" he called.

"What?" came his disembodied voice from the kitchen, distracted.

"You've got a message on your answering machine. Want me to play it?"

"Yeah, fine." A pause, and then, in a sarcastic tone, "If it's from my fuckwit of an agent, erase it!"

Xander, amused, flashed a wide smile in the empty room and pushed the big, round play button.

Beep

This is Spike. If you're Charlie, leave a message. If you're anyone else, especially my ex-agent-who-dragged-me-and-mine-to-that-stupid-bloody-club, sod off.

Beep

Er, hello. This message is for William Bennett, graduated of Eton, 1974. My name is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and I'm with Lucid Galleries of Sussex. We've come into possession of a number of works attributed to Mr. Bennett, and I'd very much like to contact him so that we can discuss a possible showing.

Xander's pen flicked excitedly as he wrote down the contact information Mr. Pryce's polished accent delivered, and ripped it off the pad. "Spike," he called, as he turned and hurried into the kitchen.

"What?" came Spike's irritated voice. "Bloody hot waffle iron!"

Xander entered the kitchen to find Spike shaking his finger and then sucking it into his mouth, easing the burn. He was very nearly distracted by that, but the excitement bubbling in him quickly overwhelmed it. "Is your name William Bennett? Your real name, I mean?"

Spike stilled, pulled his finger from his mouth. "Why do you ask?" he said, in a quiet, careful tone. "Who was that?"

Xander continued, excited. "It was some guy from a studio in Essex. They say they want to show your work, if you're William Bennett, anyway, and... what?" Spike's face had gone carefully blank. It was a look Xander'd never seen on his face before, and it was just a little frightening. Considering what had happened this morning, and the night before, that was saying something. Cautiously, he walked toward the still man, reached out and tentatively touched his hand.

Spike started, almost like he was surprised, which was impossible, since Xander'd been standing right in front of him. Okay. Very worried now. The blank look disappeared, and Spike smiled. "Sorry, love. Don't know where I went just there."

Xander nodded cautiously, and Spike continued. "Can't, in point of fact. I've never given any of m... well, nobody's got any of my stuff, 'cept what's in that room, so they can't mean me. 'S probably some other bloke. I'll call 'em and tell 'em they've got the wrong man." Disappointed, Xander nodded again, but, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off. Spike just smiled. "Gonna help me with these, then?"

"The big bad waffles kickin' your bum?" Xander smirked, and Spike swatted his ass and grinned at him. Xand tucked the slip of paper with Mr. Pryce's information into his pocket and went about cracking eggs and trying to throw puffs of flour at the shock of bright blond hair, to see if Spike would notice. Of course, Spike did, and got most of it out in the shower – when he wasn't busy being distracted by clever hands and dark eyes.

Current Mood: devious
Current Music: Harder To Breathe (live) - Maroon 5