Title: A Week in the (Un)Life Of… 1/5
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG-13 for now
Feedback/Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Notes: Written for stagesoflove 2006, Round 3, 'Five Days', #1 Monday.
Also posted here.
On Mondays, Xander sets his alarm clock to go off fifteen minutes earlier than it will do for the rest of the week. He has a vampire to handle.
Until Spike moved in, Xander had no idea that there was a twenty-four hour punk rock station close enough to be picked up by his radio alarm. He does now.
It doesn't seem to matter how many times he retunes the radio before he falls asleep - he always wakes to someone screaming in his ear about anarchy or pigs or drugs or sex, or a combination thereof. The morning he wakes to a song about sex with pigs is the day he'll be switching to a plain old ring-a-ding bell. Until then, he figures, it's a small price to pay for sharing a bed with the evil undead.
Presently he's sharing his bed, and most of his breathing space, with the evil undead version of an octopus. Arms and legs like bands of steel wrap tight around him the moment he's woken by the not-so-dulcet tones of someone screaming about, yes, killing the pigs.
He wrestles an arm free and hits the snooze button and the bands of steel relax from 'hard to breathe' to 'you're not leaving this bed without a fight'. It's a start.
"Spike, baby, I have to go to work."
The arms around Xander's chest tighten incrementally as Spike squirms even closer, draping himself along Xander's side from shoulder to ankle.
"Not a baby, daft git."
The words are muffled. Spike's buried deep beneath the mound of fluffy quilt and sheet and electric blanket he demands they always use. Xander's had to get used to sleeping with the AC on all night. Again, it's a small enough price.
All that's visible of Spike is a riot of bleached white curls that are so much softer and prettier than they have any right to be. Xander buries his nose in them and draws in a breath rich with baby shampoo and a hint of whisky. It's the best smell in the world. He presses a kiss through the curls to the sleep-warmed scalp beneath.
"Spike, I gotta go. Now, let me up before I pee the bed, okay?"
The ability to move is returned to him slowly, reluctantly, limb by limb and joint by joint. Spike burrows out from under the covers wearing a rumpled, sleepy pout, and Xander falls in love again.
Xander eases to his feet and then hesitates, like every other morning, at about this time.
"You'll be here when I get back?"
And just as he does every other morning, at about this time, Spike rolls his eyes and snuggles down into the warm hollow left by Xander's now-absent body.
"Pick me up a carton of fags on the way home, yeah? And a bottle of Jack, we're nearly out."
That 'we' keeps Xander smiling all the way to work, and gets him ribbed for 'getting lucky' on the weekend. He doesn't try to deny the charge - he knows his luck has never been this good. He hopes it lasts.