Disclaimer: Not mine
Note: A drabble? A ficlet? Anyway, something, courtesy of my being home sick
He was holding hands with Spike, which was surprising, and definitely weird, but also…kinda nice. A little sweaty, maybe, but that was all on Xander’s end. Spike had apparently devoted considerable time and effort to perfecting his hand-holding technique. It was masterful — not too tight, as if he had something to prove, and not too loose, as if he didn’t mean it.
Xander goggled at their interlaced fingers for about a year — possibly two. When he looked up, Spike was frowning. “Don't let it go to your head, Harris," he snapped, tone turning truculent. “It's just so's we fit in. Not like I wanted to.”
Spike jerked away, and the weird factor was going straight through the roof, because there was no doubt about it: Xander was disappointed. “We don’t have to hold hands to fit in at a gay club,” he muttered, with all the plausible deniability he could muster. “It’s not like it’s a rule or something.”
“You’re the one asked for my help,” Spike went on. “Better ways to spend my Saturday night than tracking down randy Gak demons with the likes of you. So if you think —“ He broke off, pressing a hand to his chest, and staring out intently at nothing.
“You okay?” Xander asked, but Spike just stood there, glassy-eyed and mute. “You okay?” he repeated, worriedly. When there was still no response, he grabbed Spike by the arm and shook him, hard. “Spike? Spike?”
“Bloody soul,” Spike answered at last. He sounded thoroughly disgusted. “No leeway. Can't tell a proper lie, anymore. Not even a white one.”
“Excuse me, but huh?”
Spike sighed. “I don’t have a better way to spend my Saturday night. It’s not just so’s we fit in. I did want to. Hold your hand, I mean.” Spike's face crumpled, and his shoulders sagged. He looked lonely and lost and defeated. And somehow, in yet another victory for Team Weird, Xander found him suddenly irresistible.
Despite a tendency toward talking too much, when it came to expressing (gasp!) feelings, Xander had always been a clumsy sort of guy: stumbling over words, saying it wrong, generally making a mess of things. But he'd never been clumsy with his hands. So he laced their fingers together again, and let his hands do the talking for him.