Wow, my first new fic in a while. ^^ Hope you like it! I's pretty confusing at first, but I'm putting a lot into for some reason...And it's my first crossover! And it's written way different the my other stuff! Which is a bit daunting o.0 But it fits the mood I'm in now, so...enjoy!

Title: Flinch
Rating: R or NC-17 eventually.
Warnings: Drug use, prostitution, m/m sex, angst. And underage sex. You'll see.
Genre(s): Buffy and Queer as Folk.
Pairings: Spike/Xander, Brian/Justin, and various others
Notes: The storyline jumps around quite a lot so, I'm going to put whose point of view each chapter is in at the beginning. And they aren't going to be very long chapters and I don't know how often I'll update it. I'm just sort of following my muse here, and she's been wierd lately. I'll try to update fairly often, though.



Xander:




There were twelve seconds of silence.

Seven of sharp breaths.

Five of exchanged glances.

And two of actual thought.

“Tell me.”


* * *


Strange to have something you’ve wanted forever to suddenly be in your hands, he thinks.

And while Angel doesn’t agree – Too risky, he says, too dangerous to let yourself think like that – there’s a years worth of not knowing to render him silent.

And even if it turns out to be terrible, which his subconscious is half-hoping for, at least he will know.

And even if he regrets it, he’ll live with it.

And even if he can’t do that, at least he’ll know why.


* * *


There’s a thin layer of snow over a thick layer of ice, which usually proves a great entertainment for him when naive people tread a little too quickly on the sidewalk, but his mind isn’t on people today.

It’s on paper.

It’s scratched untidily, hastily, hopefully on paper.

Wil seems to know this; he doesn’t turn big pleading eyes on him when they pass the bookstore. He walks solemnly beside him, apparently absorbed in his own state of reality, where perhaps there is no snow on the sidewalk, or if there is, people are slipping and falling and there is no paper at all. Except when it’s covered in ink stains and stanzas.

And then they’re there, which is hardly comprehendible.


* * *


It takes him ten minutes to remember his reason for knocking.

Wil, all the while, does nothing to encourage or deter him from whatever decision his mind is fashioning.

Eventually it’s a band-aid reaction, and he ends up just pounding the hell out of the door for a moment before jumping back like it bit him.

They wait and there’s no sound.

They wait and the door never flinches.

Eventually he has to go up again and beat the shit out of it with a closed fist, solid echoes spreading thickly throughout the building like audible dread.

Wil finally comes up and stops him when the pounding becomes ridiculous.

“We’ll try again later.”

He shakes off the comforting hand on his shoulder.

No, they won’t try it later, they’ll try it now. He’s done enough waiting and later isn’t what it’s been for.

He wants his reward now, damnit.

He doesn’t realize he’s on the ground until Wil curls an arm around his chest. He gives up with a breath and relaxes into the warmth.

Through the window he can see the light sprinkling of snow has started again.

Just enough to coat the sidewalks.

He decides maybe he can wait a little longer.

You know, just until later.