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Suki Blue Fiction |
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There is something about
Xander, but Spike can’t quite put his finger on it.
Xander is rude, mouthy and irritating and he always gives Spike a run for his money in the sarcasm stakes. He runs too slowly and he can’t fight his way out of a paper bag. He trips, he drops things and he is totally oblivious to his own unique and infuriatingly cute charms. Spike isn’t sure if he hates him or finds him a scream. Xander’s friends think he’s brave and loyal and Xander thinks he’s just a boy who cares enough to fight. Spike knows different: Xander is a nutter who will get himself killed if he doesn’t adjust his wardrobe to slightly less obvious colours. No wonder he’s such a demon magnet. Xander never ever quits. He never lets go and, like an elephant, he never forgets, tramples everything in his path and shits for his country. Xander drives Spike up the wall. But Spike watches him nonetheless because there’s just something about Xander, but he can’t identify it, can’t figure out what it is. He’s even considering writing a book about him because, really, more people should know about this strange human paradox. A demon of sizable proportions is terrorising innocent folks down at the docks. Six fishermen in two days, dead and floating in the water, and on the third day the body of a young girl washes ashore. Spike thinks it’s entertaining but Xander repeatedly tells everyone it’s such a waste and when the demon strikes once more and sinks a fishing boat, killing five more men, Xander decides he’s had enough. He stays up all night in his basement, sitting on his bed in boxers and an old t-shirt, flicking through books under the light of a flimsy lamp that Spike has had his eye on for some time. “Any clues yet?” Spike asks, not really caring one way or the other, but he’s bored and any conversation is preferable to shifting in and out of game face as many times as he can in one minute. His record is ninety four and he’s starting to feel queasy. “Maybe,” Xander mutters. He’s not really paying attention to Spike and that’s just annoying. So Spike works a hand loose from his binds and gives Xander a little wave. “I’m free,” Spike announces. “Hello!” Xander doesn’t even look up. “Uh-huh.” He grabs another book and quickly flicks to a specific page. Spike is not in the slightest bit happy with this. “I’m nearly completely loose now,” he growls. “Gonna get you, boy.” “’Kay. Get me some OJ while you’re up.” Xander puts down the book and peruses the reams of notes he made earlier in the evening instead of listening to Spike’s tales of terror, torture and fungal infections in the Victorian era. Spike wasn’t happy with that either. “What am I, your bloody-? Oh, never mind.” Spike untangles his other wrist then unties the ropes holding his ankles. He stands up, stretches until something cracks, then pads over to the makeshift kitchen and helps himself to two bags of crisps and two juice boxes. He throws one box to Xander and only blinks when he realises Xander isn’t on the bed to catch it - he’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, buttoning up cargos, slipping on an overshirt and looking for his other sneaker. “Going out?” “I know what this thing is.” “Yeah? Lucky you.” Spike isn’t interested. Not at all. “Have fun.” He sits back on the big orange chair and casually checks the back of the crisps bag for instructions. “Actually, I could use your help.” “Isn’t that nice?” Spike says, nonchalant and very interested in fat content per ounce. “I’ll give you twenty bucks and free beer all week,” Xander says. It’s a reasonable offer so Spike peers over the back of the chair and asks Xander suspiciously, “Will there be violence?” Xander says yes so Spike fishes out Xander’s other sneaker from behind the washing machine, where he did not hide it earlier just for amusement, and shrugs on his duster. They find the demon easily. It’s big and it’s scaly and it’s smelly and it’s taking a nap on the deck of a large fishing boat. The boat bobs up and down to the rhythm of its snores, and Xander stands back with a strange look on his face; he nearly smiles at Spike, then he waves him forward and tells him to do his thing. It’s the most fun Spike has had since the chip and he gleefully guts and slices, pounds and tears. It takes a while, but Spike eventually notices that Mr Fish Monster isn’t dead. In fact, it only looks a little dazed with its big googly eyes twirling around in a fashion that might have looked sort of comical it wasn’t for the huge pointy teeth that threatened to puncture Spike’s chest or, even worse, his duster. So Spike kicks it in what he supposes are its soft-and-uglies and legs it back to Xander’s side. “Are you done?” Xander asks, shivering a little in the breeze and glancing at his watch. “I guess we could stay a little longer if you want to keep going. It’s not like I have to get up in the morning.” It’s an interesting offer and Spike is a little thrown by it – and confused. “But…” He points at the slathering cod monster that’s starting to get its second, or possibly third, wind. Xander pulls a juice box from his jacket. “It’s allergic to citrus.” He hands the box to Spike and puts his hands back into his pockets. “Just squirt it when you’re done with the whole psycho thing and it’ll shrivel right up.” Spike looks at the box like it’s a mouse that could poop in his palm when he least expects it. “Go on, then,” Xander encourages, and he smiles despite the coldness of the air which is making his nose and the apples of his cheeks red as cherries. “Knock yourself out. Uh, not literally.” “Why?” Spike asks. Not that he’s ever been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but there was definitely something fishy going on. “Oh, I just don’t really want to squirt it myself. I have a…dislike of all things that smell like halibut. It runs in the family. Oh, and once, I nearly turned into a giant fish man.” Okay, so even though they shouldn’t, things are starting to make a little more sense. But something still isn’t quite right. But then the fish monster screams - burp - screams and Spike pockets the OJ and bounces back into the fight. Twenty minutes later, Spike is done and the juice box is empty. The demon is on its back, arms, legs, fins, flippers and a weird flag-shaped appendage in the air, gurgling and apparently swearing in Welsh. “Xand!” Spike calls. “Come and look at this!” Xander stands next to him, jigs up and down with the cold, and looks seriously at the rapidly shrivelling sea demon. “That’s an euw factor nine.” “Yeah,” Spike nods, not quite not knowing what an euw factor was and not particularly caring. “Cheers for this.” Xander shrugs awkwardly. “For what?” He pulls a twenty from his pocket and gives it to Spike. “I’ll get the beers in the morning.” Spike takes the twenty and doesn’t feel bad about it. Services rendered and all that rot. He does, however, feel something else, and it makes him forget about the cold from the ocean and the fish monster guts on the hem of his duster. It makes him grab Xander by his puffy red jacket and pull him close. “You’re not nearly as bad as they say,” Spike says, and then he seals their lips together before Xander can figure out that he sort of insulted him. “Taste nice, too.” They go back to Xander’s basement and, along with other stuff, Xander doesn’t tie him to the chair and Spike secretly vows never to hide Xander’s sneakers behind the washing machine again. The End
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