Charades
Rating: R
Author's notes: Thanks to Kita for the beta read.
Feedback: Mer
His mouth moving on my throat wakes me, but I know better than to move. The first time I opened my eyes, said "what the fuck?", saw him flinch for a second before the mask came down hard, like a portcullis, and he was drawling something insulting about mistaking me for a snack in his dream. I should do something about the bloody cuisine around here. Pig's blood, for fuck's sake. And he's off, the usual bullshit, and I smack him, because that doesn't make him flinch away from me. That's what we do; that's the bargain.
Sometimes I wish I couldn't see in the dark.
The second time I kept my eyes closed. Rolled over like I was half-asleep, pinioned him under one heavy thigh and a possessive arm. He used to like that, when he was young. Used to make him melt into the mattress. Not any more. He lay stiff and still as rigor mortis all night, and I don't think he slept at all.
I tried stirring just a little. He just waited till I stopped, and then waited some more, and then started all over. And here I used to think he didn't have the patience to get to the end of a sentence, for all he never stopped running his mouth.
You don't wanna know how long it takes me to learn a lesson. But I got it in the end. If there's any hope of either of us getting some sleep, just play dead. Shut up and wait for it to be over. I'm good at that. Cordy says I've got the strong, silent thing going for me. Wesley says... never mind what Wesley said. He never meant any of it.
Of course, Spike betrayed me too. But that's different. He's evil. And so was I. That kind of thing is practically a Valentine.
He's on to my ribs, now. It's gentle, almost a caress, but not a kiss. I know Spike kisses. They're burning, hard, desperate, eager. Even when he hated me. Maybe especially then. Spike never learned how to lie in bed. William never had a way with the ladies. Wasn't much point, after. Dru could see right through him, and I'd have cut him open to get to the truth. Or just to pass the time.
It's words, I figured out that much. Two words, or one long one. Always the same. Sometimes, when he's out of the way in the shower or watching his stupid show, I put my wrist to my mouth and try it. Could be "Fuck you" or "Angel" — or more likely "Angelus". Hell, could be anything for all I know. Except it's too short to be "Now is the time for all bad vamps to keep their sires up all night playing guessing games." And it's too long to be "mine" or "more" or "no". Not that he says no.
I wonder what the hell he has to tell my body so bad, that he can't let my brain in on it. Wonder if the message is gettin' through.
Some message is, 'cause his mouth is whispering over my hand and I'm getting hard. That's okay. My cock is the one place he never goes, nights. Maybe cause it's the one he'll admit to wanting to touch when I'm conscious. Under the blanket — the one he brought home like a trophy, or a Slayer, all proud and scared and hoping I'd pat his head for it. Sometimes it's hard to remember he spent a hundred years being the man of the house while I was ... out of commission. Sometimes I think he doesn't want to remember either.
Like now. He gets out of bed, goes and lays across the door like he used to. Like there's anything coming for me that doesn't already live here, in my head.
The bed's no colder with him out of it. I know that. But my body doesn't. It keeps wanting to roll over into the hollow he made in the mattress — the hollow that isn't even fucking there because we have springs now, not featherbeds, and the girls aren't coming to fill the empty space. No Buffy, for all I can sometimes almost taste her on his skin. No Cordy. No Connor crying in the night. No one is coming at all.
I could call him back. But I'm not supposed to give a shit, not supposed to need him for anything but his wicked mouth on me and his body arched and aching my under fists, fangs, cock, knives. It's him he wants, the one who gave him that order a hundred years ago, and never bothered to take it back. I'm just as close as he can get. And he's nothing I wanted. Which maybe means he's something I could keep.
It's him he's talking to, like he's in here somewhere, hiding, waiting, curled around my bones. Maybe he's right. I don't know anymore where I begin and end. But I know how the game is played.