Culture Clash

by Jane Davitt

Blair touched his fingers to his neck, where the skin was tingling, not unpleasantly. Other parts of him were in the same state, even before the application of lips and tongue, and God, yes, teeth…

"Your place," he said with some difficulty, forcing the words past the ones he really wanted to say, which, in alphabetical order, were: here me now take. He had a feeling that no matter how he'd said them, he'd have gotten his message across, since his fingers had moved from his neck to his shirt, unbuttoning it with clumsy, but eager speed. "Is it far? I'm at this motel…"

"Going to invite me back, are you?"

"That's an interesting accent," Blair said, momentarily distracted from the lust sizzling through his veins. "Not exactly my field -- did I mention I was studying anthropology? -- but it doesn't sound typical Australian."

Ice-blue eyes rolled. "Maybe because I'm sodding English? Bloody Yanks. If it's outside the States, it's just one big 'Here There Be Dragons' isn't it?"

"Ah. Sorry." Blair cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back, feeling the grittiness of brick from the alley wall scrape his fingers. It was that or start working on his belt and zipper. He was coming over too eager; that put some men off. Well…no, it didn't usually. So what was this guy's problem? "Your place?"

A long-suffering sigh. "Got a friend staying. You wouldn't like him. Bit of an old wrinkly. And it's a bit of a dump…But if you invite me back to yours…"

"Sure," Blair said. He leaned in and kissed his companion impulsively, their noses bumping. "Ow. Sorry. I guess we could do that -- oh God, my nose is bleeding!" Scarlet splashes, dark in the moonlight, were raining down from his nose, the mess appalling even after a few seconds. He groped frantically in his pocket and came up with a decrepit tissue, barely adequate to soak up a single droplet. "Damn," he said thickly. "Guess that's killed the mood."

"Not at all," Spike said and through Blair's still watering eyes, he saw a glint of gold in the blue eyes staring at him with such intensity, such hunger. "The mood's perfectly safe, trust me, Yank." Spike moved closer, his tongue running across his parted lips. "You, on the other hand…"

"Yes?" Blair said huskily, the soaked tissue falling to the ground with a soggy thud.

"Not safe at all." Spike leaned in and his tongue swiped wetly across Blair's nose -- okay, that was just gross.

"What the hell was that?" Blair yelped, pushing Spike away. "That has to be the most -- Why did you do that?"

Spike's eyes were wistful now. "Old times' sake. Pointless, but sometimes I like to pretend…" His fingers, cool and strong, pinched the bridge of Blair's nose. "Lean forward a bit…that's it. It's stopping now."

"You can -- you can still come back if you like," Blair said a little awkwardly, not sure if he wanted more of those kisses, more of this man, or not.

Spike smiled and patted his face. Really cold hands for July. "I'll walk you back, make sure you're safe, but I'd better get straight back home."

"He's your boyfriend, isn't he, not just a friend?" Blair said sadly. "No, it's okay, I understand." He kissed Spike again, this time more successfully, a brief peck on the cheek. "I'm glad you couldn't go through with it."

"Three, four years ago, I would've," Spike said belligerently. "Make no mistake about that."

Blair smiled. "I'd have been a bit young for you then. Only fourteen."

"Too young? No. You'd have been tasty," Spike said.

"'Tasty'? Is that British slang?"

"No, it's a bleeding adjective meaning -- oh, forget it." Spike's coat swirled around his ankles as he strode away, Blair in tow. "Let's get you home, Yank."

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