Cole Porter Ficathon
For the Cole Porter Ficathon - lunabee34 who loves the pairing of Spike and Xander.
As always the guys belong to Joss - this is rated adult for lusty thoughts
Not Beta'd the mistakes are all mine - please enjoy - I've missed writing and will finish everything I started (cause I hate not knowing the end)
Begin the Beguine (I have no idea what Beguine means! - but I love the lyrics)
Xander stood out on his balcony, idly watching as people moved through the city. He always picked the highest apartment or hotel room he could afford; he loved looking over the cities of the desert. It was even better when the city was near the coast or the great rivers of Africa. He’d hated Africa at first, so poor, so many people dying of illnesses cured or controlled in the States. He’d hated the food, the lack of treats, the scent of too many human bodies using too little soap or deodorant. Or at least that was how he’d felt at first; slowly he grew to love the people of Africa. He loved the spicy scents of the open markets, the smell of animals and the ocean that seemed to permeate all of the continent.
Now he stood outside on his balcony, watching the distant traffic, scenting the spices of the late night markets and cigarette smoke as it drifted upwards. Tropical nights and the scent of Africa, sent him dreaming and wondering what could have been.
He wondered where it all had gone wrong. He’d been so in love with the idea, so in lust the perfection of him, so in need of a soul mate, that he’d obviously missed something. Why else would his lover simply disappear. It would be a year tomorrow, that his lover had slipped away in the dark leaving only a note. Funny he’d know him for years, and didn’t ever remember seeing his writing before. And yet, the minute he’d seen the handwriting he knew it couldn’t belong to anyone else. The writing was so flawless, as flawless as his grey-blue eyes. The writing was as upright and taut as his backbone and pride. The signature was a loose scrawl almost as if written by another person.
For a year now he’d stayed in Africa alone, it seemed like home now, even though there were no more Slayers for him to find. He sighed and went back inside to get a drink, from the small refrigerator, tucked in tight in the galley style kitchen. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung in the small narrow hallway. He had to laugh, he looked as if he were Native American, totally displaced on the wrong continent. His hair was long and fastened back with a multitude of different hair clips. Every place he went in Africa, both men and women fell in love with his dark hair, streaked with golden sunlit strands. It wasn’t unusual for a pregnant woman to stroke his hair, then rub her belly trying to impart his hair to her unborn child. The first hair clip had been given to him when he’d impatiently started cutting off his too long hair with his knife. Since then in almost every village, someone gave him another. Some were beaded, some made of metal, copper and silver. A few were decorated with feathers, or bells, he wore them all till his long hair glittered with metal and he chimed as he walked. His refused to get a glass eye and once he and Africa were comfortable with each other he’d refused to wear his patch. So his hair was parted to the left to at least softened his appearance. His thin silk pants clung to his sweat damped body, no underwear present (ever) to ruin the line. Clothing was sometimes hard to come by, making underwear seem silly and unimportant. He was nut brown and lean, with little appetite and no real junk food to be found. Although every once in a while he could be tempted by a honey soaked, walnut-filled baklava, sold in the market.
His hair chimed gently as he leaned down for an ice cold beer. He walked back to his small private balcony, lying down on the cot, relaxing in the open air, trying to catch some of the distant breezes. He rubbed the sweating bottle against his chest, his nipples perking up in response to the cold stimuli. He sighed again he fell asleep, beer unopened with the warm tropical wind drying the sweat off his body, long hair ruffling and chiming with the breeze. Never knowing his lover watched him from across the way.
. . . .
Spike had been lucky enough to find a hotel room, a little higher than his lover’s apartment. He’d left in the worse possible way. A coward’s way, he didn’t even know how to explain it to himself. But he’d been terrified for his lover, and for himself; he didn’t want to face losing him, or that his lover would one day die. It had taken the combined force of Willow, Buffy and Dawn to make him realize what a fool he was, throwing away the best thing he’d ever had. He was grateful to see that Xander seemed to be alone. He didn’t know what he would have done if Xander had moved on. God knows the boy, the man, could have had anyone he wanted. It didn’t matter if they were male or female, human or demon, all of them fell a little in love with Xander. He ached with need watching his lover sleep. He could hear the chimes in his lover’s hair even from here. Spike laid out on his balcony, letting the cool night air sooth his tattered soul.
Spike fell asleep only to dream, dreaming of the night he’d left the only true lover he’d ever had. Life with Xander had been full of adventure, travel, lust and love. They were always on the go, and Xander was always happy wherever he was, he simply had a happy soul. Spike had never experienced a such a happy lover before but grew to appreciate every facet of Xander’s quirky personality. That night they’d made love in the tent, waiting for full night to fall. At dusk, they showered naked together, caring no more than anyone else in the village about their nudity. It was later as he gently towel dried, then combed out his lover hair that he freaked out. At least inside, a bolt of fear ran though him. His mouth was suddenly dry and he’d panicked. He managed to pretend everything was fine for the few hours before Xander had fallen asleep, his arms wrapped tight him around him. He’d slipped out, written that stupid letter and run back to England as fast as he could. (Well, as fast as someone who could only travel at night could).
He woke-up only to feel his non-beating heart breaking. Dear God, that a few silver strands in his lover’s hair could terrify him into running. All he’d been able to think about was his lover growing old and losing him. The girls had finally reached though to him with several simple questions: Wasn’t it better to be with his lover for as long as he had him? Letting him die in his arms, knowing he was loved? Or was it, better for Xander to die alone without his mate, lover and friend? There could be only one answer to that. So here he was back in Africa, longing, lusting, wanting his lover. He could only pray, to whatever God listened to vampires that his lover would take in back.
. . . .
Xander spent to next day, shopping and visiting with friends. Laughing and arguing in as many languages as he knew, getting the best deal he could. He loved to bargain and trade, it reminded him fondly of Anya, a memory he could now look at without pain. He waited till almost dusk to finally return home. He strolled along, a net full of oranges and a bag full of fresh vegetables. He’s made a real find, spotting that six pack of bottled cola. His sandals, raise a faint puff of dust as he walked along, he looked up at the stars and wished with everything he had, that he was walking holding his lover’s hand. He missed him with a need so fierce, feeling so heartbroken, that even after a year it almost made him sick.
Xander looked down as he approached his building, fumbling for his keys. He stopped in his tracks, blinking, it had to be a dream, it couldn’t be real. There at the doorway stood Spike. Looking like a dream, black linen pants, with a blood-red silk tank, white arms with ice blue veins raised in the act of lighting his cigarette. Spike, he should have felt angry, he should have felt a need to hurt him in return, but all he could think about was longing to feel those arms wrapped tight around him in a lover’s kiss. Spike looked up and saw him at the same moment, he blinked as his normally self assured lover looked panicked. Then he swallowed, and straighten his spine walking toward Xander. Watching as the packages, Xander carried slowly dropped to the dirt. And it was as if the year of lose and loneliness had disappeared as the lover’s met - never to be apart again. Their names whispered and soon lost in tropical night wind.
Track Title: Begin The Beguine Album Title: Cole Porter Songbook, disc 1 Prime Artist: Ella Fitzgerald Producer: Norman Granz Written by: Cole Porter (C. Albert P.) From the Show: Jubilee 1935 (S) Lyrics:
When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendor,
It brings back a memory ever green.
I'm with you once more under the stars,
And down by the shore an orchestra's playing
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.
To live it again is past all endeavor,
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are, swearing to love forever,
And promising never, never to part.
What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,
I know but too well what they mean;
So don't let them begin the beguine
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember;
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember
When they begin the beguine.
Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more,
Darling, I love you!
And we suddenly know What heaven we're in,
When they begin the beguine
Feed me I need the happy feelings
As always the guys belong to Joss - this is rated adult for lusty thoughts
Not Beta'd the mistakes are all mine - please enjoy - I've missed writing and will finish everything I started (cause I hate not knowing the end)
Begin the Beguine (I have no idea what Beguine means! - but I love the lyrics)
Xander stood out on his balcony, idly watching as people moved through the city. He always picked the highest apartment or hotel room he could afford; he loved looking over the cities of the desert. It was even better when the city was near the coast or the great rivers of Africa. He’d hated Africa at first, so poor, so many people dying of illnesses cured or controlled in the States. He’d hated the food, the lack of treats, the scent of too many human bodies using too little soap or deodorant. Or at least that was how he’d felt at first; slowly he grew to love the people of Africa. He loved the spicy scents of the open markets, the smell of animals and the ocean that seemed to permeate all of the continent.
Now he stood outside on his balcony, watching the distant traffic, scenting the spices of the late night markets and cigarette smoke as it drifted upwards. Tropical nights and the scent of Africa, sent him dreaming and wondering what could have been.
He wondered where it all had gone wrong. He’d been so in love with the idea, so in lust the perfection of him, so in need of a soul mate, that he’d obviously missed something. Why else would his lover simply disappear. It would be a year tomorrow, that his lover had slipped away in the dark leaving only a note. Funny he’d know him for years, and didn’t ever remember seeing his writing before. And yet, the minute he’d seen the handwriting he knew it couldn’t belong to anyone else. The writing was so flawless, as flawless as his grey-blue eyes. The writing was as upright and taut as his backbone and pride. The signature was a loose scrawl almost as if written by another person.
For a year now he’d stayed in Africa alone, it seemed like home now, even though there were no more Slayers for him to find. He sighed and went back inside to get a drink, from the small refrigerator, tucked in tight in the galley style kitchen. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung in the small narrow hallway. He had to laugh, he looked as if he were Native American, totally displaced on the wrong continent. His hair was long and fastened back with a multitude of different hair clips. Every place he went in Africa, both men and women fell in love with his dark hair, streaked with golden sunlit strands. It wasn’t unusual for a pregnant woman to stroke his hair, then rub her belly trying to impart his hair to her unborn child. The first hair clip had been given to him when he’d impatiently started cutting off his too long hair with his knife. Since then in almost every village, someone gave him another. Some were beaded, some made of metal, copper and silver. A few were decorated with feathers, or bells, he wore them all till his long hair glittered with metal and he chimed as he walked. His refused to get a glass eye and once he and Africa were comfortable with each other he’d refused to wear his patch. So his hair was parted to the left to at least softened his appearance. His thin silk pants clung to his sweat damped body, no underwear present (ever) to ruin the line. Clothing was sometimes hard to come by, making underwear seem silly and unimportant. He was nut brown and lean, with little appetite and no real junk food to be found. Although every once in a while he could be tempted by a honey soaked, walnut-filled baklava, sold in the market.
His hair chimed gently as he leaned down for an ice cold beer. He walked back to his small private balcony, lying down on the cot, relaxing in the open air, trying to catch some of the distant breezes. He rubbed the sweating bottle against his chest, his nipples perking up in response to the cold stimuli. He sighed again he fell asleep, beer unopened with the warm tropical wind drying the sweat off his body, long hair ruffling and chiming with the breeze. Never knowing his lover watched him from across the way.
. . . .
Spike had been lucky enough to find a hotel room, a little higher than his lover’s apartment. He’d left in the worse possible way. A coward’s way, he didn’t even know how to explain it to himself. But he’d been terrified for his lover, and for himself; he didn’t want to face losing him, or that his lover would one day die. It had taken the combined force of Willow, Buffy and Dawn to make him realize what a fool he was, throwing away the best thing he’d ever had. He was grateful to see that Xander seemed to be alone. He didn’t know what he would have done if Xander had moved on. God knows the boy, the man, could have had anyone he wanted. It didn’t matter if they were male or female, human or demon, all of them fell a little in love with Xander. He ached with need watching his lover sleep. He could hear the chimes in his lover’s hair even from here. Spike laid out on his balcony, letting the cool night air sooth his tattered soul.
Spike fell asleep only to dream, dreaming of the night he’d left the only true lover he’d ever had. Life with Xander had been full of adventure, travel, lust and love. They were always on the go, and Xander was always happy wherever he was, he simply had a happy soul. Spike had never experienced a such a happy lover before but grew to appreciate every facet of Xander’s quirky personality. That night they’d made love in the tent, waiting for full night to fall. At dusk, they showered naked together, caring no more than anyone else in the village about their nudity. It was later as he gently towel dried, then combed out his lover hair that he freaked out. At least inside, a bolt of fear ran though him. His mouth was suddenly dry and he’d panicked. He managed to pretend everything was fine for the few hours before Xander had fallen asleep, his arms wrapped tight him around him. He’d slipped out, written that stupid letter and run back to England as fast as he could. (Well, as fast as someone who could only travel at night could).
He woke-up only to feel his non-beating heart breaking. Dear God, that a few silver strands in his lover’s hair could terrify him into running. All he’d been able to think about was his lover growing old and losing him. The girls had finally reached though to him with several simple questions: Wasn’t it better to be with his lover for as long as he had him? Letting him die in his arms, knowing he was loved? Or was it, better for Xander to die alone without his mate, lover and friend? There could be only one answer to that. So here he was back in Africa, longing, lusting, wanting his lover. He could only pray, to whatever God listened to vampires that his lover would take in back.
. . . .
Xander spent to next day, shopping and visiting with friends. Laughing and arguing in as many languages as he knew, getting the best deal he could. He loved to bargain and trade, it reminded him fondly of Anya, a memory he could now look at without pain. He waited till almost dusk to finally return home. He strolled along, a net full of oranges and a bag full of fresh vegetables. He’s made a real find, spotting that six pack of bottled cola. His sandals, raise a faint puff of dust as he walked along, he looked up at the stars and wished with everything he had, that he was walking holding his lover’s hand. He missed him with a need so fierce, feeling so heartbroken, that even after a year it almost made him sick.
Xander looked down as he approached his building, fumbling for his keys. He stopped in his tracks, blinking, it had to be a dream, it couldn’t be real. There at the doorway stood Spike. Looking like a dream, black linen pants, with a blood-red silk tank, white arms with ice blue veins raised in the act of lighting his cigarette. Spike, he should have felt angry, he should have felt a need to hurt him in return, but all he could think about was longing to feel those arms wrapped tight around him in a lover’s kiss. Spike looked up and saw him at the same moment, he blinked as his normally self assured lover looked panicked. Then he swallowed, and straighten his spine walking toward Xander. Watching as the packages, Xander carried slowly dropped to the dirt. And it was as if the year of lose and loneliness had disappeared as the lover’s met - never to be apart again. Their names whispered and soon lost in tropical night wind.
Track Title: Begin The Beguine Album Title: Cole Porter Songbook, disc 1 Prime Artist: Ella Fitzgerald Producer: Norman Granz Written by: Cole Porter (C. Albert P.) From the Show: Jubilee 1935 (S) Lyrics:
When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendor,
It brings back a memory ever green.
I'm with you once more under the stars,
And down by the shore an orchestra's playing
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.
To live it again is past all endeavor,
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are, swearing to love forever,
And promising never, never to part.
What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,
I know but too well what they mean;
So don't let them begin the beguine
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember;
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember
When they begin the beguine.
Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more,
Darling, I love you!
And we suddenly know What heaven we're in,
When they begin the beguine
Feed me I need the happy feelings