Chapter 17

Landing is Just Crashing Softly

There must be change in the laundry load, as it is clanking with every revolution. I lay on my back upon my bed, with my head far back, watching it go round and around.

"It's soothing, isn't it?" Xander says, looking up from his comic. Thor. Volume 3. Number 5. "I would sit and watch it go round and round some nights. Hums me to sleep."

"I remember" I say, and sit up. His room stinks of drugstore deodorant and dust. The air is warm and oppressive from the tumbling dryer. Xander looks up, his dark eyes raking over the long, sleek curves of my naked legs and up, over his plaid red shirt that hangs loosely from my upper torso. He wears it too. But it fits him.

He catches my stare and realises what he is doing, quickly looking back down at the comic. I saw you Harris.

"We can't go out in this." I say, referring to the rain streaking past the small strip window. I stretch my legs to the ceiling and run my hands down the shiny smooth, freshly shaved skin. "I am so bored in here."

"We can always go up there." He says, and I turn my eyes to the basement stairs. The door waits, painfully unlocked and bulging with rage. Light spills violent shadows from the cracks. I know the air up there tastes of disappointment and split lips, and stinks of sour booze and crumbling seventies furniture.

I turn my eyes away but the feeling of dread crawling over me remains.

He is up there. He is waiting for me.

"That's not the way out." I say. Xander turns the page of the comic and snorts and cackles. Too high. Too fake. Too Hyena.

I sigh, standing and stretching out my back. My ribs creak and pop. Our shirt slides up and his eyes are drawn back to me. A grin tugs my lips, and I can't help it, I want to play. I really am bored down here.

He looks up as I put my foot onto his lap. I slide it real slow over his thigh, until I end up straddling him. He feels warm between my legs, and I feel powerful. I arch my back and wrap my arms slowly over his shoulders.

He glares back into our eyes, dark and twinkling in the dim light of the silenced TV. I have his complete attention. I have him. I have power.

"Fuck, Xander. You're hard." I say. I roll my hips and we both let out a gasp.

"We shouldn't." He says, pressing his face against my chest. "We'll go blind."

"He can't hear us down here."

The laundry goes rumble- clunk, rumble-clunk as I work him free from his pants. He seems so big in my small hands, frighteningly so. But as I work the velvet flesh up and down with an expert touch, he lets out a moan that ripples through me, chasing away the dread in my heart. I shift my hips forward and work my own heat against him, slow and slick, until the lines between our flesh is a blur.

He is through playing around and grabs my hips, his wide, strong hands drawing me down onto him.

"Shit. Fuck." I hiss. I can feel myself opening to him, easy at first, then a pinch as he widens me. He is inside now, and the pleasure swirls with pain. I hiss again, screwing my eyes tight as his insistent hand drag me downwards. It's too much, far too much. It feels like I am splitting in two.

"Fuck, you're... big." I say, "wait. Please. Slow."

He stops, thankfully, and I lean against him to shift some weight onto his muscular frame. I breathe in, and breathe out, trying to relax against the pain. Trying to accept him inside me. His hands cup my buttocks, holding me still. I breathe and slip down a little, breathe and slip some more. But I can't. It won't. I just…

There is a knock at the door that doesn't exist there usually. I can hear the wind outside scraping branches and the chant of some playground song.

I pull up, gasping as he slides out of me, and feel my limbs going slack. Xander holds me to him, his face watching me with a blank expression.

"I'm sorry." I say. He nods, and smiles in a "hey we tried" kinda way, but he knows what must happen next. I give the boy credit, because he takes it like a man.

I slip my fingers around his throat. And begin to squeeze. And squeeze. And squeeze.

There is a knock at the door. And the laundry clicks and powers down.

But when I look back...


I scream and Claw at the pale ghoul in the suit, flailing desperately at the grinning face and piercing eyes.

My hand is caught, so I swing the other, screaming in silence and gulping for air. But that hand is caught too. And then the shadows clear and I am staring at the moonlit door to my apartment.

Faith is holding my wrists, pinning me to the bed. I try to yelp but of course my voice is missing. I look about the room to find it empty, no maniacs in straight jackets, no creepy assed Gentlemen.

She feels me slacken and she releases me. Brushing sweat matted locks from my face. I am in my bed, tucked under the sheets, and she is kneeling beside me.

I try to talk, but no voice comes out. I want to explain, and I want to confess all the hurt and pain and shame and… and…

She strokes my cheek tenderly, a sad smile flickering to her face. A nod. Are you okay? A shaky nod to reply. She pulls away from me, going to stand.

I seize her hand.

I don't want to be alone. And she somehow understands this. She looks down at my hand, then back to me pensive and uncertain. I release her, and turn away, hiding my face into the pillows.

But then I feel her pulling aside the cover and hold my breath. A warm body presses against my back, and I feel an arm snake over me, curling up against my chest. My hand takes hers, and pulls it in closer to me.

There is nothing sexual in this intimacy. It is not leading anywhere. It is just what it is. And what I need.

I let out a puff of silent air and settle. Faith is somewhat stiff against me at first, but eases down gradually. Her naked leg hooks into mine, spreading the warmth.

And in her arms I fall thankfully into a deep, dead and dreamless sleep.