Bringing it Home

And he knows that Spike will let him do anything to him. And that's good. But not tonight. Tonight he's so angry he's livid. Bruise coloured rage, heavy storm cloud gathering emotions swirling in his head. He can't trust himself to touch a body that would double as a punching bag if he told it to, if he asked, if he even just hit it and raised an eyebrow in a wordless query afterwards.
So Spike's on the sofa, a long lean line of black-clad vampire and Xander's kneeling naked, the hands that tried to hit crossed and tied behind him, the mouth that wanted to spit out hurtful words silenced by a gag, waiting for the storm to pass and the blue skies to come again.

But it’s not working, not tonight, and he’s about to give up when Spike sighs.

Not an impatient sigh, though Xander knows he’s been hard since he heard the key in the door. Not angry either, or sad, disappointed or bored. It’s a sigh because Spike’s waiting, waiting for him to come home for real.

And it’s all it takes. Xander snaps the single strand of cotton that holds his wrists in place, tugs on the bow that fastens the silk scarf between his teeth and opens his eyes to see himself reflected in the blue of Spike’s eyes.

And he knows he’s home.

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