Title: Cleaner
Author's name: Shayla
E-mail address:
wisheyemay@yahoo.com
Spoiler warnings: Season 7, episode 2. As in a
souled Spike in the school basement. I don't know
much more than that myself.
Disclaimer: I own many things, none of which include
the characters in this story.
Summary: Everything is cleaner in the rain.
Pairing: S/X
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Yes, please.
A/N: Still pre-slash. Sequel to Basement. This is
for all of you who sent lovely feedback asking for
more. Thank you.
Okay, now when I said home, I meant somewhere a little
more near my actual home than the school parking lot.
But there’s rain, and with Spike’s face tilted up
towards mine, I can almost pretend the wetness on his
cheeks was rain all along.
The key word here being almost.
“God, I’m sorry. Please. You don’t have to do this.
Don’t.”
Frantic words whispered softly into my ear as if *I*
were the one in need of coddling.
“Xander, dry up. Let’s... It can be like before,
happy, yeah?”
How do I explain rain to someone who keeps brushing
the drops furiously from my face?
“No need for tears. Who am I that tears should be
shed?”
Someone who thinks I am crying for him. I wonder if
anyone’s ever cared enough to cry for him.
“Knew it. Knew this would happen, I did. Shouldn’t
have touched me. Hurts to touch, remember?”
This weird twisting in my gut, and yes, indeed, it
hurts to touch.
“That’s why it’s never done. See? Now see what I
did? With the tears. You have them all over.”
So the rain never gets explained. I can’t speak,
can’t break this spell. Here in this place is
something Spike can actually fix because nothing is
broken. However false these rain-tears are, yes. I
can do this. In this place, I can be broken instead
of him. *For* him.
I just lean against my car, soaking wet, as he stands
in front of me quivering. Maybe I’m quivering, too,
because this almost child-like display of comfort is
about to rip me apart. Cool, thin fingers scrub at my
face, in a futile attempt to dry it. His hands
flutter around me like a pair of white birds trying to
find a place to land, touching down on my arms and
shoulders, back to my face.
“Come, now. Let’s see a smile, hey?”
And suddenly it’s just too absurd. I do smile, laugh
even, but it’s raw and painful and I cut it short. It
sounds ugly, and there is already too much of that.
Spike’s hands fly up to cover my mouth. A pretty
frown and I guess he thought it was ugly too. Thank
God the rain is letting up some. I gently take
Spike’s wrists and pull them away.
"Right, sorry then. Forgot myself."
Ghost my hands up his arms and they come to rest on
his shoulders. Try to catch his eye. "Hey. See,
don't mind the touching. It's okay."
Also not minding what can only be described as a
nuzzle to the area just above my collarbone. In an
instant it's over and I wouldn't swear in a court of
law that it actually happened.
As Spike abruptly squats down in front of me, a thrill
worms up my spine, and aren’t I just a sick bastard.
Snatch my hands from his shoulders.
I’m not that guy.
But he is threading his fingers through a shallow
puddle.
For a while that’s all there is. Me watching Spike
watching his hand as it moves through oily water. And
maybe I’m insane too because I know what he is
thinking.
“Where did they all come from? I hear them up there.
Crying on me for what I’ve done.”
So it would seem that I am, in fact, insane. I can
taste the salty residue from the rain on my lips, and
God, how many people died to create this deluge of
grief?
“So many lives to mourn, with so many tears. Come
back to drown me, haven’t they? Should do the trick,
yeah?”
Okay, I know this one. “Actually no, vampires don’t
breathe.”
Another pretty frown. “But *I* am breathing. Feel.”
With that, there’s a hard yank on my arm and I’m on my
knees next to Spike in the puddle.
I don’t even need my hand on his chest to feel its
rise and fall, because I can feel cool little puffs on
my face. I don’t look at him, because he’s too close
and it doesn’t bother me enough. Things just seem
cleaner in the rain.
Rise. Fall.
It’s all very surreal, just kneeling here in the
aftermath of a storm, hand between the folds of a
partially unbuttoned shirt, resting on the skin
exposed there. It would be so easy to make believe
that he is breathing, really breathing.
Puff. Puff.
That there isn’t a god-awful stillness where a
heartbeat should be. That the skin I feel is clammy
only because of the wet.
Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.
I slide my eyes to his, check to see if I’ve somehow
willed him to life. And his eyes, well, they sure as
hell don’t look dead. They look even worse, and it
dirties the moment. It's still beautiful, just less
clean.
Puff. Puff.
Close my eyes, and I’m back to where Spike isn’t
broken and I’m not so fucking out of my league. Back
to where tears are only rain and Spike can be the one
to wipe them away. Not a happy place, no, but
happi*er*. Easier.
“How many do you think there were?”
I feel a slight vibration as he speaks, and it drags
me back to reality, where it’s me and Spike, kneeling
in gritty parking lot water with cigarette butts and
soda can tabs floating around us.
"Somewhere along the way, I lost count."
Back to where the hand-shaped spot of warmth I'm
feeling is borrowed from me and Spike has nobody to
cry for him.
My knees hurt.
Everything is suddenly very ugly again.
“Between you and me, I don’t think I’ll ever be able
to make it up to them.”
“Spike...” I sigh. Stand and offer him my hand. Drag
him up. “Look....” And really, I have nothing to
offer here. No words of encouragement, no "time
heals" blather. And did I mention that I'm ever so
*fucking* out of my league here?
“Is it too late for me? Tell me the truth.”
I contemplate that. It probably is. But I'm not
stupid. While I might not know what to say, I
definitly know what *not* to say.
I clear my throat around the lump there, and even so,
my voice sounds hoarse. "No. Of course not."
Besides, there are cool fingers tangled in mine, and
there’s rain.
So maybe it isn’t.
Super Geschichte unglaublich wie man so trauriges schreiben kann. 
kann ich da nur sagen. 
