A/N: Don't watch the last ep at 1am. Don't constantly listen to The Real Folk Blues while writing… Spoiler warning and very much yaoi. We know what scenes this lies between... don't we?
Ballad of Ain't Comin' Back
Jet struggled to ignore the pain in his leg. It was futile. The tattered couch supported his weight… barely. Part of him— a large part— wanted to sleep in Spike's bed tonight. He couldn't explain it. He didn't yet recognize the wrenching frequency with which he would do so after tonight, either. It wasn't like the man needed him; it wasn't like he needed Spike either, really…
He wasn't surprised by the sound of Spike moving through the darkness, though everything from his tone of voice to the constricting, momentary ache around his throat said he was. And what did he say? He was starving.
And Jet knew.
"… Hold on, I'll whip somethin' up."
All he could make was beef and bell peppers, without the beef. He almost laughed. Then he did. Then Spike did, too.
"It's gonna be a while…"
"I know."
Spike was more than weathered and Jet could see the woman in his eyes. He could ask, but…
There was so much they could say… so much they should. All this time. But that wasn't part of the rules. That wasn't playing fair.
He would have thought that he'd have fully accepted the injustices of life by now…
The thought crossed his mind that the moment they shared now, groping through the deep black of Spike's room, existed solely because there was no other event to occupy the empty space and it sent a stab through his gut that paralleled the one in his leg. It crumbled to oblivion as they kissed, raw and molten. Jet sensed a sliver of desperation in the way Spike pulled at his clothing before it melded into a deadness, tempering it, that terrified him.
But he wouldn't tell. Not when the length of Spike's body pressed flush to his in complete blindness. Blind and silenced— by their own will alone. There was a soft rustle in cheap sheets and Jet found Spike on his back with quiet hands hissing up his torso. His mouth found a nipple, tongue sliding across and around its raised surface as he relished in the faint spasm of fingers on his fleshy shoulder. His hand dropped lower still, ghosting across skin and hair and heat to his prize. Spike squirmed, but said nothing. He'd never been a vocal lover.
"It's kinda… cold."
He didn't know what to say. So he didn't. He just… pulled those sheets up around both their bodies before sinking down into the scent of which Spike was the sole possessor. He drew him into the heat and softness of his mouth with the practiced patience of a man who'd done it countless times before with the same person. Jet never felt more like he was home with those hands on his shoulders and head.
He'd lost track of time by now but resolved not to leave unless he smelled fire. Something in him knew it had to matter this time... Of course, he wouldn't give voice to it.
The subtly scented therapeutic oil was where it always was, and it caused him to wonder momentarily why he thought it would be anywhere different. As the pop of the cap broke the silence, he felt himself being pulled up to warm breath that fanned against his ear. The smile in Spike's voice made him want to cry and laugh and cry. But he wouldn't.
"I wanna remember this."
"Spike, don't you—"
"Let's try something different."
And that was how it happened. That was how Jet lay on his side on flat pillows, for lack of a better position to suit his injuries. The awkwardness and faint pain of penetration was lost in a sudden precognitive flash of lying here alone, drowning.
Drowning…
That breath returned again, an unfair tickle on the back of his neck as they labored quietly. Jet felt the gap between them spoke volumes, but he wouldn't acknowledge it more than that as Spike's hot, lean body strained against his own, hands and lips greedy and everywhere and moving with perfect rhythm and goddamn—!
Spike valued rhythm… Currently, the rhythm of his breathing was slowing down as his arms tightened lazily around his waist. It surprised him… but it didn't, really. They'd just never been much for the cuddly stuff.
They separated and spent a few minutes cleaning up. It would have been far more logical to stay up then, but they nonetheless found themselves back in bed, resting languidly and kissing with an affection that Jet was amazed to discover. Had that always been there?
His arms tightened around the other man before he even realized it.
"You know, Spike, I—"
"… I know, Jet."
"You're not gonna…"
…die.
"Scout's honor."
"Spike…"
"Something's burning, Jet," Spike's voice smiled again.
"Shit."
"Be right behind you."
Spike lit a cigarette and watched that broad back retreat into the light. He had to go. He'd just… eat and be on his way. Making promises wasn't a good idea, though he knew what a lie it was to say he felt no impulse at all to say goodbye.
But he wouldn't.
~fin
Ballad of Ain't Comin' Back
Jet struggled to ignore the pain in his leg. It was futile. The tattered couch supported his weight… barely. Part of him— a large part— wanted to sleep in Spike's bed tonight. He couldn't explain it. He didn't yet recognize the wrenching frequency with which he would do so after tonight, either. It wasn't like the man needed him; it wasn't like he needed Spike either, really…
He wasn't surprised by the sound of Spike moving through the darkness, though everything from his tone of voice to the constricting, momentary ache around his throat said he was. And what did he say? He was starving.
And Jet knew.
"… Hold on, I'll whip somethin' up."
All he could make was beef and bell peppers, without the beef. He almost laughed. Then he did. Then Spike did, too.
"It's gonna be a while…"
"I know."
Spike was more than weathered and Jet could see the woman in his eyes. He could ask, but…
There was so much they could say… so much they should. All this time. But that wasn't part of the rules. That wasn't playing fair.
He would have thought that he'd have fully accepted the injustices of life by now…
The thought crossed his mind that the moment they shared now, groping through the deep black of Spike's room, existed solely because there was no other event to occupy the empty space and it sent a stab through his gut that paralleled the one in his leg. It crumbled to oblivion as they kissed, raw and molten. Jet sensed a sliver of desperation in the way Spike pulled at his clothing before it melded into a deadness, tempering it, that terrified him.
But he wouldn't tell. Not when the length of Spike's body pressed flush to his in complete blindness. Blind and silenced— by their own will alone. There was a soft rustle in cheap sheets and Jet found Spike on his back with quiet hands hissing up his torso. His mouth found a nipple, tongue sliding across and around its raised surface as he relished in the faint spasm of fingers on his fleshy shoulder. His hand dropped lower still, ghosting across skin and hair and heat to his prize. Spike squirmed, but said nothing. He'd never been a vocal lover.
"It's kinda… cold."
He didn't know what to say. So he didn't. He just… pulled those sheets up around both their bodies before sinking down into the scent of which Spike was the sole possessor. He drew him into the heat and softness of his mouth with the practiced patience of a man who'd done it countless times before with the same person. Jet never felt more like he was home with those hands on his shoulders and head.
He'd lost track of time by now but resolved not to leave unless he smelled fire. Something in him knew it had to matter this time... Of course, he wouldn't give voice to it.
The subtly scented therapeutic oil was where it always was, and it caused him to wonder momentarily why he thought it would be anywhere different. As the pop of the cap broke the silence, he felt himself being pulled up to warm breath that fanned against his ear. The smile in Spike's voice made him want to cry and laugh and cry. But he wouldn't.
"I wanna remember this."
"Spike, don't you—"
"Let's try something different."
And that was how it happened. That was how Jet lay on his side on flat pillows, for lack of a better position to suit his injuries. The awkwardness and faint pain of penetration was lost in a sudden precognitive flash of lying here alone, drowning.
Drowning…
That breath returned again, an unfair tickle on the back of his neck as they labored quietly. Jet felt the gap between them spoke volumes, but he wouldn't acknowledge it more than that as Spike's hot, lean body strained against his own, hands and lips greedy and everywhere and moving with perfect rhythm and goddamn—!
Spike valued rhythm… Currently, the rhythm of his breathing was slowing down as his arms tightened lazily around his waist. It surprised him… but it didn't, really. They'd just never been much for the cuddly stuff.
They separated and spent a few minutes cleaning up. It would have been far more logical to stay up then, but they nonetheless found themselves back in bed, resting languidly and kissing with an affection that Jet was amazed to discover. Had that always been there?
His arms tightened around the other man before he even realized it.
"You know, Spike, I—"
"… I know, Jet."
"You're not gonna…"
…die.
"Scout's honor."
"Spike…"
"Something's burning, Jet," Spike's voice smiled again.
"Shit."
"Be right behind you."
Spike lit a cigarette and watched that broad back retreat into the light. He had to go. He'd just… eat and be on his way. Making promises wasn't a good idea, though he knew what a lie it was to say he felt no impulse at all to say goodbye.
But he wouldn't.
~fin