Birthday fic for cordelianne!
So you're all looking at my name on your flist and thinking, "Hey, didn't she used to write stuff or something?"
Um, yeah, I pretty much haven't written anything since Writercon, which is ironic, but not really connected. I've been busy with things that are largely of the good and maybe I will post about those later. But for now, I'm here to finally post fic - birthday fic for cordelianne.
If you haven't had the abiding joy of meeting and knowing cordelianne on LJ (or in person)...
...then back off because she's mine! All mine!
Although I suppose that if you must friend her to read her thoughtful and well-characterized fic, or her fun TV commentaries or any of her other interesting and moving posts, I can't really stop you. And if you should happen to receive some of her stellar, perceptive and detailed feedback, I guess I can't take that away from you.
But don't think I won't fight you for her if it comes to that.
And I'll win, too.
Anyway, for her birthday she gets another chapter of the Wonder!verse - in which Spike is a barely legal hustler and Xander is a teenage dirtbag (baby).
S/X. Just under 1000 words. Rated Mature. Best read having read the previous four stories.
The beat of the bass borders on ridiculous-scratch that, crosses the border into ridiculous and commits several treaty violations there-but Xander only half notices as his steps fall into time with the thumpa-thumpa.
The walk through the campus parking lot used to be a walk of shame. A walk of no car and not even a skateboard since his dad ran it over in the driveway and called it Xander’s “own damn fault.” A walk of no friends since the McNally’s moved away and nothing to do and nowhere to go except home to an outdated Nintendo.
A walk of no life and no prospects and the knowing glances that aren’t even stares because no one at school can be bothered to spare him that much attention.
But now he’s got something the glances don’t know.
And even though they never bothered to ask, he doesn’t have to tell.
He still walks past his house. Creeps past in the bright light of day, but the shades are always closed against the sun, keeping the inside dim and dreary and making it safe to steal glances. He makes the crossing on tiptoe anyway, keeps the press of his footsteps beneath the low hum the passing cars and jumps with every bark of every dog because it’s a still a risk but one he can’t help taking.
The way you can’t keep your eyes off the wasp or bee buzzing in the corner on the other side of the room and you’re not even on its radar at the moment and you don’t even want to kill the thing exactly-it’d be good to leave each other alone-but you don’t leave the room even though you could. You know it’s better to stay close because you know it’s going to break its side of the deal and you’re not about to let it sneak up from behind.
You watch it and wait for it to twitch.
Every afternoon Xander stalks his house, waits for it to twitch. Glues his eyes from the moment it comes into sight all the way past, sliding away with wary over-the-shoulder glances until it’s well and truly out of eye-shot.
He walks past his house, but he doesn’t go in.
Not this early.
Not since his dad lost the third job this year.
He doesn’t notice the smell in the stairwell anymore, doesn’t really see the ugly green carpet or the bare, flickering bulbs. He sees the door, though, like it’s the only door in the hall and the knob is cool and solid beneath his hand. He doesn’t have to knock anymore, but he always does-a couple quick raps against the wood and he walks in without waiting for an answer.
“Quiet,” Spike says. He doesn’t look up.
Of course Xander knows better by now than to interrupt Spike during Passions, but Spike never takes any chances. Xander slides his backpack off his shoulder and lets it slip down his arm toward the floor, catching it at the last minute and easing it the final few inches to the ground, quiet.
He drops his jacket down on top of it and crosses the room. He sits next to Spike who’s sitting on the end of the bed because that’s the only comfortable place to watch the TV. Of course, comfortable may be the wrong word-because Xander’s heart never fails to race and his skin never fails to tingle and his stomach never fails to churn, like he ate the tuna surprise in the cafeteria again, only better-but it’s the natural place and Xander sits there because he can.
Spike still hasn’t looked at him and you’d think it’s because Xander’s been coming at the same time every day for weeks now, but Spike hardly looked at him the first day either.
Spike did answer the door that first day-it being locked and all-but he didn’t ask Xander what he was doing there or what made him think he could come. He didn’t ask Xander to come in or to sit down, either.
He didn’t ask Xander anything, just said, “Quiet, I’m watching my show,” and left the door open as he turned and went back to the bed.
Sort of a relief, since the babbling explanation brewing in Xander’s brain probably would’ve been embarrassing.
No questions, no explanations, just Passions and a cold soda at the commercial break.
The TV’s about the size of the microwave with scratchy sound and pieces of antenna sticking out every which way, but the picture’s not bad and a couple weeks ago a brand new Sega appeared from somewhere.
They play it together after the soap.
Sometimes Spike gets up between games and makes himself a sandwich. He offers one to Xander but Xander usually tells him he isn’t hungry. A soda or two is okay, but he doesn’t wanna be a mooch.
Sometimes after Spike sits down next to him with the sandwich, Xander’s stomach growls and makes a liar out of him and Spike takes another small bite and then sighs and says he can’t finish it, holds it out until Xander would be rude not to take it.
Xander tries not to swallow the whole thing in two bites.
He tries not to talk too much either. Even when the show isn’t on. He doesn’t want Spike to get tired of him.
But sometimes when he’s really into the game he forgets to be quiet. Sometimes when a few words slip out-a yeah! or a take that! tossed at the screen-others sneak out after them. Sometimes the dam breaks and one story leads to another and then he’s told Spike the entire history of his friendship with Jesse before he catches his mouth and snaps it shut.
But Spike never tells him to be quiet.
Except when they’re watching Passions.
Um, yeah, I pretty much haven't written anything since Writercon, which is ironic, but not really connected. I've been busy with things that are largely of the good and maybe I will post about those later. But for now, I'm here to finally post fic - birthday fic for cordelianne.
If you haven't had the abiding joy of meeting and knowing cordelianne on LJ (or in person)...
...then back off because she's mine! All mine!
Although I suppose that if you must friend her to read her thoughtful and well-characterized fic, or her fun TV commentaries or any of her other interesting and moving posts, I can't really stop you. And if you should happen to receive some of her stellar, perceptive and detailed feedback, I guess I can't take that away from you.
But don't think I won't fight you for her if it comes to that.
And I'll win, too.
Anyway, for her birthday she gets another chapter of the Wonder!verse - in which Spike is a barely legal hustler and Xander is a teenage dirtbag (baby).
S/X. Just under 1000 words. Rated Mature. Best read having read the previous four stories.
The beat of the bass borders on ridiculous-scratch that, crosses the border into ridiculous and commits several treaty violations there-but Xander only half notices as his steps fall into time with the thumpa-thumpa.
The walk through the campus parking lot used to be a walk of shame. A walk of no car and not even a skateboard since his dad ran it over in the driveway and called it Xander’s “own damn fault.” A walk of no friends since the McNally’s moved away and nothing to do and nowhere to go except home to an outdated Nintendo.
A walk of no life and no prospects and the knowing glances that aren’t even stares because no one at school can be bothered to spare him that much attention.
But now he’s got something the glances don’t know.
And even though they never bothered to ask, he doesn’t have to tell.
He still walks past his house. Creeps past in the bright light of day, but the shades are always closed against the sun, keeping the inside dim and dreary and making it safe to steal glances. He makes the crossing on tiptoe anyway, keeps the press of his footsteps beneath the low hum the passing cars and jumps with every bark of every dog because it’s a still a risk but one he can’t help taking.
The way you can’t keep your eyes off the wasp or bee buzzing in the corner on the other side of the room and you’re not even on its radar at the moment and you don’t even want to kill the thing exactly-it’d be good to leave each other alone-but you don’t leave the room even though you could. You know it’s better to stay close because you know it’s going to break its side of the deal and you’re not about to let it sneak up from behind.
You watch it and wait for it to twitch.
Every afternoon Xander stalks his house, waits for it to twitch. Glues his eyes from the moment it comes into sight all the way past, sliding away with wary over-the-shoulder glances until it’s well and truly out of eye-shot.
He walks past his house, but he doesn’t go in.
Not this early.
Not since his dad lost the third job this year.
He doesn’t notice the smell in the stairwell anymore, doesn’t really see the ugly green carpet or the bare, flickering bulbs. He sees the door, though, like it’s the only door in the hall and the knob is cool and solid beneath his hand. He doesn’t have to knock anymore, but he always does-a couple quick raps against the wood and he walks in without waiting for an answer.
“Quiet,” Spike says. He doesn’t look up.
Of course Xander knows better by now than to interrupt Spike during Passions, but Spike never takes any chances. Xander slides his backpack off his shoulder and lets it slip down his arm toward the floor, catching it at the last minute and easing it the final few inches to the ground, quiet.
He drops his jacket down on top of it and crosses the room. He sits next to Spike who’s sitting on the end of the bed because that’s the only comfortable place to watch the TV. Of course, comfortable may be the wrong word-because Xander’s heart never fails to race and his skin never fails to tingle and his stomach never fails to churn, like he ate the tuna surprise in the cafeteria again, only better-but it’s the natural place and Xander sits there because he can.
Spike still hasn’t looked at him and you’d think it’s because Xander’s been coming at the same time every day for weeks now, but Spike hardly looked at him the first day either.
Spike did answer the door that first day-it being locked and all-but he didn’t ask Xander what he was doing there or what made him think he could come. He didn’t ask Xander to come in or to sit down, either.
He didn’t ask Xander anything, just said, “Quiet, I’m watching my show,” and left the door open as he turned and went back to the bed.
Sort of a relief, since the babbling explanation brewing in Xander’s brain probably would’ve been embarrassing.
No questions, no explanations, just Passions and a cold soda at the commercial break.
The TV’s about the size of the microwave with scratchy sound and pieces of antenna sticking out every which way, but the picture’s not bad and a couple weeks ago a brand new Sega appeared from somewhere.
They play it together after the soap.
Sometimes Spike gets up between games and makes himself a sandwich. He offers one to Xander but Xander usually tells him he isn’t hungry. A soda or two is okay, but he doesn’t wanna be a mooch.
Sometimes after Spike sits down next to him with the sandwich, Xander’s stomach growls and makes a liar out of him and Spike takes another small bite and then sighs and says he can’t finish it, holds it out until Xander would be rude not to take it.
Xander tries not to swallow the whole thing in two bites.
He tries not to talk too much either. Even when the show isn’t on. He doesn’t want Spike to get tired of him.
But sometimes when he’s really into the game he forgets to be quiet. Sometimes when a few words slip out-a yeah! or a take that! tossed at the screen-others sneak out after them. Sometimes the dam breaks and one story leads to another and then he’s told Spike the entire history of his friendship with Jesse before he catches his mouth and snaps it shut.
But Spike never tells him to be quiet.
Except when they’re watching Passions.