Xander has never been a coward. He has always done things with his whole heart, even this.
Eyes closed and lower lip caught vice-tight in his teeth, he clenches his hand tighter, pushes a little harder. The razor slips, blood-wet, and clatters down onto the linoleum, and nothing in Xander's being can force him to pick it back up again. He's not, not going to make an effort to be neat, not now, not in this. As the pain overwhelms his best intentions he closes his eyes and smiles sadly.
Finally.
However, Xander has never been very good at research.
Spike watches as Xander comes to, sees elation become confusion as he recognizes the familiar surroundings, confusion become soul-crushing sadness as those big brown eyes see the bandages on his wrists.
He welcomes the pain those workman's hands pound into him, winces at the smell of blood as scabs break open, and comforts as best he can with gentle words and soft touches when broad shoulders shake and hot, salty tears fall.
"I'm sorry, pet, I couldn't let you go."
"Why?"
"Because you're mine. And I don't like losing my things."
For a while, those are the only words needed.
Spike is beginning to suspect that he misspoke. Somewhere along with the blood and tears went Xander's mask of submission, and what is left behind reminds him of an altogether different man indeed. Demon Angelus may have been, but he was always undeniably a man, and never left any doubts about possession or ownership.
That wasn't me.But he knows it's a lie.
He's so caught up in thought that the first kiss catches him unawares and makes him gasp, which speeds up things quite a bit, and soon it's a very good thing that he doesn't need to breathe.
Xander works on instinct and vividly bright, flaring memories of Faith's low growl and pain so intense it fell off the edge and came back as pleasure. At first he is tentative, following tongue with the scrape of teeth and barest hints of pressure, but after one tense moment, Spike is anything but reluctant.
Some time after the first spill of blood Spike's seeming slips, longer, sharper teeth cutting deeper into his already lacerated lower lip. Xander, busy negotiating the vagaries of male anatomy, either doesn't notice or doesn't care. And very soon after that, Spike's appearance becomes completely irrelevant.
Angel paces. They reek of each other – revolve around one another like binary suns. Xander smells so strongly of sex that he is sure that someone else in that room must have noticed, and Spike, his darling William, can't hide the softness in his eyes when he looks at that tall, dark man who is not him, does not even try. Flaunts the claims of another.
He is mine.
His knuckles are bloody, and he doesn't even remember punching the wall. The demon wants this at least as much as he does, and happiness has not a part of it.
"He isn't yours, you know." Xander freezes mid-stride, considers reaching for the stake in his pocket before realizing he'd never get there in time. The vampire walks slowly into his peripheral vision, and the effort it takes to not turn his head is staggering.
"He's not yours either." He's started to walk again, and Angel follows, neither moving further into his range of vision nor leaving completely.
"But he was. And he could be again."
"Over my dead body."
"That could be arranged."
Xander stops and pivots, eyes wide and teeth flashing. "But what if it doesn't have to be?"
This can't be happening.
Oh, but it is. Just like you imagined.
Though in truth, it is nothing like he imagined. No thought was given to the crunch flake crumble of gel that accompanies his hands in on through Spike's hair, or the resentment that briefly flashed white-hot in those blue eyes. Nor did he imagine the labored breathing and the hot, vibrant damp of human breath coming from the chair in the corner.
But certain things never change, like the cool slick of his skin against someone else, the complicated dance of limbs and wanting.
He will be mine.
Xander wants this.
Spike isn't entirely sure why, but those warm eyes pleaded more eloquently than his trip stutter words, crumbling Spike's resolve like licked cotton candy. Which is why he's flat on his back, legs at an improbable angle and blue eyes staring intently at the ceiling.
It's not that he doesn't enjoy this - Angel is just as he remembered him, as broad in other places as he is across the shoulders - but his body's memories are tainted, remembering everything through a veneer of submissive abandon.
That wasn't me.
Maybe it was.
Maybe I want this too.
I gave them this.
His thumb rubs across the harsh Braille of desperation that cuts across his wrist, reading there what set him on this path. Teeth worry his lower lip when he slouches into the scarred naugahide, watching the tangled writhe of limbs on his bed.
His bed, with its hospital corners and 400-count cotton sheets in clearance table periwinkle blue. Using Anya's personal lubricant, fished out from under the entertainment center where she'd thrown it over a month ago during The Argument.
When they collapse into a sated heap, he smiles.
Mine. Because I gave it to them.
It's awkward and comes in stutter steps, but none of them ever stop to question it. It isn't easy, because none of them would know what to do with easy if it fell into their laps with instructions. But it is, and it never goes away.
Xander's scars heal - moonlight pale against his tan skin - and Spike's hair grows, a temple long tumble of mouse brown curls. Angel smiles again, and laughs when he thinks no one can see.
None of the Scoobies are quite brave enough to question them, and that's just fine, because they'll be together.
Forever.