Summary: Xander likes Spike’s hands.
Notes: Drabble-ish. Set in the New York New York!verse. (though you can’t really tell)
Notes 2: I was reading and listening to music when this story hit me like a ton of bricks. I was inspired by the music of Dashboard Confessional’s ‘Ghost of a Good Thing’ The slow-Sunday-morning relaxed feeling of the music.
Thanks to my beta umbralillium
Tell me what you think. Thanks!
Xander loved Spike’s hands.
He was lying in bed, propped up against Spike’s chest when he thought this. Spike’s arms were around him, his hands resting against Xander’s stomach. Xander’s hands were atop his.
His hands were large, but delicate looking, with long fingers that were meant for writing or art. Not piano-fingers, they weren't long enough, but meant for art just the same. His knuckles were sharp and smooth, small curves of pale skin.
Xander ran his hands along Spike’s slowly; up his forearms and back down again. Small blond hairs tickled Xander’s hands.
Spike had done so many things with his hands. He’d killed with his hands. Probably strangled someone with them, or cracked someone’s neck. Creaks and pops beneath his palms.
He’d also done amazing things with his hands: saved Xander and the Scoobies a time or two. He’d written poetry with his hands, words flowing from thought to existence with a stroke of the pen. Spike’s handwriting was elegant and soft. Beautiful and flowing like something old and worn but still strong as the day they were made.
Sometimes Spike would write notes to Xander maybe even about him; usually grocery list items or phone messages, but once in a while he would see something on TV or while out and he would write a few nonsensical poetic words. Xander kept them in a shoebox in the closet. Old napkins, scraps of paper and crumpled note pages all secured away in the box.
Spike’s hands were soft and smooth, calluses from slaying worn away. His hands slid across Xander like creamy silk; grazing over his muscles with passion, lust, and love.
Xander arched into his touch and his body burned whenever a hand found the small of his back or his shoulder. Everyday touches left Xander feeling giddy and warm. Hands that ghosted over his spine, his arms, his soul.
The intimacy between them stretched and expanded, sex becoming less like fucking and more like making love. Their hands became searching, meeting and tangling together, intertwining their lives as well as well as their bodies.
It didn’t matter that Spike had killed people, things, with his hands. All that mattered was the feeling he got when Spike touched him. When he knew what Spike felt. When he knew that Spike felt the same way about Xander as Xander felt about Spike.
The times when he realized what it was all about. What they were feeling; about their relationship; about each other. The times when Xander experienced his feelings in wide blaring 3-D. The times when Spike communicated to him on a level that neither talked about but both understood. When they didn’t need to say a word because the touches said it all. When Spike touched him like more than just a lover; when Spike touched him like a soul mate.