Hands - darkhavens

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Hands

How long?

How long since those bone white hands had begun to tantalise, hypnotise? How many hours, days, weeks, months, of watching them move? Agile, erotic, impossibly strong, never still, never clumsy, always there at the edge of vision, stealing attention from life and death discussions until the only possible thoughts were 'touch me, feel me, take me'.

The trick is to watch without looking: sidelong glances, under lowered lashes, over magazines and books, through the steam of endless cups of coffee and mugs of hot chocolate.

Maybe all that caffeine is the real reason for the pounding heartbeat, the dry throat, the hot rush, when one of those beautiful dead hands slides slowly down the ancient leather duster, absently searching out a cigarette. Then up, to that fucking gorgeous mouth, slipping the cigarette between parted lips, maybe a glimpse of clean white teeth, tip of tongue, inner lip, before the rasp of a lighter and a flare of flame, blue, like his eyes, is touched to the tip. And at last he takes a breath, draws in a lungful of smoke and holds it, chest expanded under skin-tight black t-shirt, just for a moment... savouring the warmth?

Those cold, beautiful lips part, and force out a thin stream of quickly cooling smoke. The hand holding the cigarette stills, and Xander watches as Spike's top lip curls into the sneer that Billy Idol had supposedly stolen for his own.

Slowly Xander forces his gaze upwards, over hollow cheeks, razor-sharp cheekbones, until he meets the amused ice blue gaze of the vampire.

"You look all wound up, pet. Maybe you need..." his eyes flick downwards in the direction of Xander's groin, "a fag." One eyebrow quirks and Xander flinches, wishing he could just disappear into the shadows, wishing he'd made his presence known out there on the porch the second the vampire had stepped out of the house for a smoke. Too late now, idiot.

Heavy silence, so loud Xander can hear each empty second hit the floor and roll away, never to be recaptured, and he knows, he knows that his secret is no longer his own. Had it ever been?

"No?" Spike grins wickedly. "Not even one long, slow... drag? Relieve the tension, it would."

Xander watches, mesmerised, as Spike brings the cigarette back to his lips, sucking in smoke, the ember flaring bright, before changing his grip, palm to mouth, trapping the cigarette, fag, between index and middle finger, pulling it slowly away from his mouth. Equally slowly, he turns and extends his arm, palm outwards, towards Xander, and the temptation is there, quick and urgent, to move forward, to close his mouth around the damp tip of the cigarette, maybe feel those hungered-for fingers brush his lips as he tastes, oh gods! the ghost of the vampire's essence.

A whimper of arousal tries to escape and Xander swallows it, hard. He's already made quite enough of a fool of himself, thankyouverymuch, without sounding like a mewling kitten.

With a hastily muttered "Those things will kill you," he flees into the Summers' home, praying with every step that Spike doesn't follow, spilling taunts and wisecracks that would alert the others to his unnatural obsession... lust... love?!

Spike slowly takes another deep pull on his cigarette and watches the whelp run for the imagined safety of the Slayer's house.

"Ah, pet..."