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Half Past Midnight by dee
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Author's Notes:
Unabashed PWP. The title is a somewhat tongue-in-cheek Skulker reference.
It was one of the outings he probably wasn't supposed to come back from. You know, those. He always sleeps best when he's just cheated death. It's so fucking cliché he's embarrassed to admit it, but there it is.

So he's surprised he wasn't actually snoring when she opened the door, though he couldn't have been because she doesn't seem to notice he's woken up. It's the middle of what passes for night by mutual consent and his room's pitch black, the only light falling past her at the doorway and he hasn't moved except for his hand going under the pillow, curled loose around the gun there. He's sprawled face-down on the bed and the bare skin on his back is prickling, all his instincts singing, because he's still high from near escape number two-hundred-and-forty-eight. But his eyes just want to close again, his brain to fall back into sleep.

She steps inside and closes the door, and the room's black as the inside of a cat again. He notices that he hasn't let go of the gun. Interesting.

She's barefoot, of course, so she doesn't make a sound crossing the room. He senses it a moment before the edge of the bed dips, which is probably just as well. He's not wound tight - then again, it's been so long he wonders if he'd recognise it - but there's something ready and waiting coiled inside him. He stretches his fingers off the grip of the gun. The moment she touches him - on his arm, just above the elbow - he's moving. Turns and grabs her wrist, keeps the momentum going to flip them both over so she lands on her back and he's holding her down by wrist and her other elbow, his hip pinning the inside of her thigh.

She makes a surprised little squeak and he's grinning in the dark, where she can't see it, except that she'll hear it in his voice, she'll know. "What did you expect?" he asks.

She lunges up and kisses him, and it's his turn to sound surprised. She swallows the noise up, taking advantage, sweeping into his mouth. Even if he wasn't constitutionally incapable of letting her get the upper hand without a fight, certain invitations weren't designed to be refused. He kisses her back. Jerks back from her teeth then pushes back in, mouth open, his tongue meeting hers. She stretches up off the mattress at him, her body arching, and he's already half-hard where he's pressed low against her hip. From here it's easy to shift, drag his body just that little bit over hers. Lets go of her elbow in favour of running his palm down her thigh, encouraging that long, luscious leg around him. It's funny, he's never really been a leg man before, but kind of the thing about her is that whatever you like, she's got it.

She's wearing her skimpy lounging pyjamas, not that ridiculous yellow costume, bare skin under his hand on her leg and soft, flimsy cotton between her breasts and his chest. She's wasted no time wrapping her freed arm around his shoulders, tangling her fingers in his hair to hold him still for her long, deep kisses. Every time he tries to move his head her grip tugs against his scalp and when he tries a little harder she growls, tightens her hold and kisses him so hard that his hand skims back up her thigh, sliding up under her shorts to splay his fingers over her hip. He pushes his thumb down the crease of her thigh and licks a tiny sound out of her mouth.

It occurs to him that maybe they should talk, maybe he should ask something like, 'Why are you here?' But if he does, one of them will say something stupid, and he'll get annoyed and she'll leave, and that, clearly, is completely unallowable. Better this way.

Much better with his other hand on her side, pushing cotton up over her ribcage. She spreads her fingers across his shoulder blade, pulling him to her, and he tilts his hips against hers. She's warm and alive under his hands, her ribs expanding under his fingers as she breathes in against his cheek, arching up again in a perfect press from hip to sternum and he's actually taken by surprise at how much he wants her right now.

He kisses her hard and deep and serious as his hands skim over her - her shoulder, the bared planes of her stomach, her temple and her hair cool-damp from showering. She jerks her face away from his and he can't find her again in the dark until her mouth hits his throat a little too hard, drags down, her tongue laving over his collarbone. He's fisting up her top in both hands, and when he tugs she levers up a little to let him strip it off, air between them for the seconds it takes for her to find his wrist in the dark (second try) and pull his hand down. Her breast fills his palm and when his thumb trips over the nipple he can find her mouth again by following the little hitch in her breath.

Wrapping his other arm around her waist, he heaves them closer to upright, lifting her so he can get his knees under them. It's not the easiest thing he's ever done. She may be lithe, but it's all muscle. She goes with it, though, arms around his shoulder and straddling him. He's more than just half hard now and his hips nudge up against her.

"Yes," she hisses into his mouth, undulating against him, pressing her hips down and her breast into his hand. He bites her bottom lip, his other hand settling low in the small of her back, thumb hooked into her shorts and twisting. He wants them off, he wants her naked, he wants to be inside her more than anything else he's capable of remembering right now. He might wonder if that was in some way a point she was making, if she wasn't hot against him, arching back against his hand with her fingers back in his hair, pulling his head down to her breasts.

He's always preferred action to thought.

He licks at her nipple, a light graze of teeth, and her hand clenches tight around the back of his neck. He chuckles against her breast, tongue flat on her skin, and she makes a little annoyed sound tight in the back of her throat, like he's changed the channel when she's watching something or put his feet up on her magazine. She shoves at him, pushing him back until he has to move his hand to brace himself, and he's glad he did that when she slips her hand down his pants. The heel of her hand brushes down the length of his erection and he catches his breath, unable to stop the push of his hips into her waiting palm. It almost tips her off his lap; she grabs his shoulder but doesn't hesitate in a long, slow stroke.

His hand is still in the small of her back, pressing against the base of her spine and he pulls her to him hard, squashing her hand between them as she half-falls against his chest. Delicacy's somewhere amongst the furthest things from his mind; he kisses her hard and wet and messy. Her fingers flex and he makes a noise that might be embarrassing if he cared right now.

He doesn't.

Laying back, he tugs her with him, but she kneels up and he loses her in the dark except for her hands on him as she works his pants off down his straightened legs. And then he loses her entirely, just the sound of skin on the sheets and his own breathing, until her hand lands on his thigh, some joint - knee? - brushing his shin. She crawls up him like she's climbing and he reaches for her, grabs an elbow and pulls her up the last part, bumping nose to ear before he finds her mouth again. As his hand slides unobstructed down over her hip he realises she's naked too.

Her mouth leaves his as she settles over him. He wants to say something - her name; bad idea - and bites his own lip against it as her hand trails down his stomach. Finds, encircles, guides, as she lowers herself the last important distance.

It's been too long. Far too fucking long and here in the dark all he can do is feel: the sheets rucked under his shoulders as he tilts back against the bed; the muscles of her thighs under his hands; the slow, heated pulse of her around him. When she takes a breath and starts to move his grip tightens on her legs and he prays for light, any light, because she has such an expressive face and he wants to see this etched upon it. Wants to see her head back, her face soft, her eyes closed. He wants to see what bliss looks like on her. He has a feeling it will suit her.

Though she starts off slow and sinuous, it doesn't satisfy her for long either, and she moves faster, harder. She braces against his chest, breath coming more harshly now, and he slides his hand up to her hip, down between her legs to urge her on until she shudders and gasps and he arches up a little, wishing again. She just fucks him harder, rolling her hips, like she's demanding it of him. For once, he gives in; comes breathing hard and fisting his hand in the sheet beside her knee, the other pressing into her hip and honestly, it only occurs to him in the next minute, limp and sweaty and with her weight still on him, that he may have bruised her.

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't even kiss him again as she levers herself off, and he can't reach for her, like he can't say something, because this silence is hers, she's come to him. Can't, even if he wants to, which he isn't sure he does. He's never really sure of the complicated things with her. Simple is easier.

He thinks she agrees. Thinks that tomorrow, after she's slipped out of his room again, a blinding spill of light at the doorway with a flash of her purple hair and then darkness again, after he's gone back to sleep and half-convinced himself he's imagined it all...

Tomorrow, Spike will be in the shower when Faye wakes up and she'll yell at him about hot water, and when he yells back she'll make the cold cut out by filling the coffee pot, so when he comes storming out he'll steal Faye's coffee, made just the way she likes it and nothing like Spike likes it (too fucking sweet) but he'll drink it just to annoy her, and it'll work so well that she'll stalk off to sulk at Jet all morning while Spike works through the standard post-adventure kata, calming himself down, centring himself again.

And it will be like this - this here, them, in the dark - never happened.