Rating: PG for minimal violence
Feedback/Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Xander has a secret and it's been eating him alive and he doesn't have a clue if he should tell, or who, or what to say.
It keeps him up at night reading news reports and listening for that throwaway line on the TV or the radio. He wants to know if barbecue forks have gotten just that little bit more lethal in the last few weeks.
It's confusing, and he finds himself second-, third-, eleventh-guessing the conclusion that he knows must be right, and he has the bruises - and the broken bones - to prove it.
Three weeks ago, while out fighting demons of the oozy kind, Spike had body-checked him to the ground and thereby saved his life, briefly stunning Xander into speechlessness.
Before Xander had a chance to get his voice back and his brain in gear, Spike had stomped the demons into grey-green gunk and wiped the remnants off on Buffy's favourite denim jacket. There'd been screaming.
Xander had quietly picked himself up, avoided the worst of the goo and shuffled over to watch for signs that Spike had any clue about what he'd done. He had to, right?
Instead, his saviour had run through his usual routine of threats of gory death and glorious technicolour vivisection, before sauntering off towards the nearest bar for '-a real drink, not that American piss that passes for beer.'
Xander had limped home, clutching ribs he knew were cracked, mentally reviewing his stock of bandages and tape. He'd carefully not acknowledged the pale smudge of shadow that followed him all the way back to his cosy basement. One epiphany a night was his limit.
Xander's secret goes like this: Spike broke his ribs and saved his life and followed him home, and now Xander wants to keep him.