HOME    STORIES    LINKS   INFO

Title: Mirror Author: Ladycat Pairing: NB/JM Rating: NC-17 He feels the eyes. Knows the stories. If there's one thing James is good at, it's knowing how skeevy he really is. He can lie to everyone with a straight face and a light-hearted grin, but the mirror doesn't take his shit. It dishes back. Lines, sagging skin, eyes that are more grey than blue. More grey underneath the bleach and the bluster and the brown shadowing the edges. Hell, even his skin is going grey, losing that porcelain look the others are so fond of mocking. And that's just the physical. Digging underneath, to find the overgrown teenager that can't seem to hang onto anything good in his life, that's even worse. He knows what a bastard he is. Selfish and crass and fucking full of himself, when he's not playing up to the adoring masses. Hell, sometimes even then. But every once in a while, he knows how to be a good guy. Upstanding, the kind someone wants to call friend. Like when he sees Nicky, one eye red, the other so milky he can't be seeing out of it, puffy and saggy and practically falling over. Tressa's out of town, he knows. She's just another distraction when they're shooting the finale, so Nicky sent her to visit her parents or something equally family and calm. James waits for a calm moment in the sea of tv-chaos, and walks upt Nicky slumped in his chair. Orders him into his trailer with the same implacable, I'm-putting-my-foot-down-now-dammit voice that never works on Sullivan unless he's got some quiet menace in it, working like a charm this time. Nicky doesn't even offer a token protest, stumbling into the trailer that's better than his own. Even though he's been there from the first. And James is just a nice piece of ass. "M'fine," he murmurs as James dumps him into his own bed. "Don't worry." It's litanies he must've said a hundred times, tripping off his tongue with practiced ease and insincere emotion. James snorts and tosses some water onto his face. "I didn't ask you if you were okay, dipshit. I know better." Nicky's sitting up now, hair flying in all directions as the water slides off. "Huh? James?" "How much?" Pink tongue, licking an already wet lower lip. "Huh?" James doesn't like to hit. Not really. But he knows that when you get so lost in the drink that you're living for the next chance you can get your hands on a bottle, that sometimes the physical is all that's left. So he smacks Nicky across the cheek, hard enough that there's a white-red imprint of knuckles on Nicky's twisted about face, and a lingering cry of surprise. Then Nicky's blinking at him for real, suddenly focusing and rubbing his face, and trying to look sheepish and cover everything over all at once. James knows that face. He's seen it in the mirror plenty of times. "I'm okay, really," Nicky babbles, Xander puffed out on booze and stress and old age before his time, wiping his hair and rubbing his cheek and trying to use the words he long ago lost command of to get him out of this. "I'm just tired. End of shoot, you know." "I know." "So, uh, I—" "Are gonna take a nap. In my bed. And when I get back from acting like a lovesick fool in front of a woman that hates me—that's woman, not character—I'm gonna come back and make you eat real food. Then we'll see." He can see Nicky try and work that out. His left eye is starting to look a little better, confirming James suspicion that he's been keeping it closed just for the masochistic thrill of it. "But I—" "Don't have a shoot for another twelve hours. I'd tell you to go home, but I know you won't. So sleep. Now." James is one of the oldest people on set. Including most of the crew and Joss himself. It doesn't always work, but when he finally stops being Peter Pan for a second, he knows how to use that to his advantage. Or maybe Sullivan's a better teacher than he's given the kid credit for. Nick blinks at him, loose-jawed and confused, then nods. "Yeah. Thanks." "Go to fucking sleep, Nick. Now." * * * * * When he comes back, Nick's leaking booze-laden drool all over his pillow. It's sort of cute. James strips off as much Spike as he can, tugging on the loose yoga pants he prefers when he's got some sack time in his trailer. He's good for at least ten hours, and like Nick, he should probably go home. They all should, but he knows none of them will. There's still three more days of shooting and emotions are hitting the all-crying-all-the-time level. Going home now seems like a betrayal. He thinks about playing another round of Neverwhere, but he's pretty sure this is the first restful sleep Nick's had in over a week, so he grabs a book instead and curls up on the bed next to Nick. He's actually getting into it—damn Rowling's good—when he feels a hand crawl up his leg. Nick's awake, blinking up at him with the same kind of artlessness Sullivan has when he's woken up out of a sound sleep and he's got no idea where the hell he is. "Hey," James says softly. "Hey. Huh?" "And there were have it, the ability to babble that got you the job. My trailer, Nick. I made you sleep." "Oh, right. There's supposed to be food?" "Yup. Healthy stuff. Not a piece of fried anything anywhere. And water. Lots and lots of water." Nick's still got the Sullivan-look in his eyes, the one that says 'make it better' even as it says 'I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about and please don't fix that part of the problem'. "Huh?" James just looks at him. He sucks at this part of the deal. It's why he's forty and single, unable to get anything but the stupid children who think a pretty face is the answer to all their problems. And it can be, for a while, but then things get serious like they always do and James hasn't the first fucking clue what to do or how to do it. It's why, as much as he loves Sullivan, he knows he's a shitty Dad. Knows that Sullivan's a hell of a lot better off with his prick of a step-father, who isn't a prick, just taking the one thing James doesn't want to tarnish and is terrified he will. He blinks, refocusing on Nick's up-turned face. "I can use little words." "Nah. I wouldn't understand those either." James' got his fingers in Nicky's hair, sweat coating the strands and making his skin feel sticky. "Food? Something better than the fried shit you live on?" "Food sounds good." He's vegetarian at the moment, living for the day the shoot is over and he can run out and get drunk on hamburgers or fucking rare steak and all the beer he can swallow. But that's not for at least a few weeks, after the shoot is over and after he knows what Spike's final fate is. Have to look pretty for the execs, his agent tells him over and over. James wouldn't mind it if they'd let him at least stay healthy while they're starving him. No such luck. Healthy doesn't send little girls into spasms of money-spending ecstacy. The food is simple, but good. James doesn't know what half of it is, but he gives most of it to Nicky who looks like he's been living on alcohol-created calories alone. "Thanks," Nick says when they're done. "I, uh. I. It's been—" "You wanna sleep some more? No reading with that eye of yours." He doesn't volunteer his television, since that's just more of the same shit for Nick. He wants to give him a little free head-space zone. That means nothing Nick is used to. Nick seems to get that, blinking and confused but looking less watery. James wants to believe that a good rest and a good meal is all that Nick's going to need to fight the booze-bloat, but he knows better. Literally knows better, which he thinks Nick is starting to finally peg. Good for him. A little slow on the uptake, but a stand up guy, Nick. "What were you reading before?" James hasn't blushed when he doesn't want to since he was seventeen. He doesn't even do the I'm-so-bashful head-duck, just smirks a little. "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire." "Oh. Read to me?" He wants to do a spit-take, but he's got no food in his mouth and he knows how serious Nick is. So he shrugs and they go back to the bed. There's a token hesitation but Nick is climbing under the covers and looking back at James expectantly; James shrugs and they take their former positons. James sitting up in his own bed, book resting in his hands. Nick stretched out beside him, hand on James' leg. Weird, and vaguely reminiscent of things not even skeevy-James wants to name, but Nick's lost some of the lines around his small, puffy eyes and that's better than a confirmed contract for Angel, so he'll take it. He doesn't bother starting at the beginning. It's not necessary. Just picks up where he left off, with Harry trying to figure out how to go underwater without drowning. It's easy to fall into reading this book, a practice run for when he'll have to read it aloud, and hey, it's a damned good book beside. James reads, stumbling occasionally over lines he's not familiar with, mentally recounting Sullivan's anxiously excited questions when he feels it. A head. Hard and soft and hot and wet all at once. Rubbing over his thigh and crotch. James doesn't stop reading. Hell, his breathing doesn't even change—Julliard's good for something other than free press when he rants about it. He just lifts the book a little higher and keeps reading about this stupid boy with these stupid problems that three seconds ago weren't stupid at all, while Nicky works his pants down, torso spilling all over James' legs, mouth sticky-wet over the head of his cock. Surreal isn't quite the word. Even for a Whedon set. He reads an entire chapter while Nicky sucks his dick. It's not a great blow-job, but James is okay with that. He's a jaded shit, but he's not that jaded and Nicky's enthusiastic. Warm, desperate bobbing that blows breath all over his groin as Nick just sucks and sucks and sucks. It's mindless, almost fucking hypnotic, and James knows exactly what's doing it. He's been here, with someone's cock in his mouth because it's not a bottle and at least maybe the cock comes attached to a hand that rubs your scalp and a voice that tells you nice things. When the chapter ends, James does just that. Pets Nicky like the slobbering dog he is right now, murmuring how good it feels, how fine this is. Stupid shit he doesn't mean and Nicky doesn't believe, but it sounds nice. Safe. Eventually James starts tightening and he pushes at Nick's head. Gentle, doesn't want his dick snapped off, and Nicky looks up at him with eyes that are clear and fathomless for the first time in longer than James can remember. "Gonna fuck you now. Okay?" Nick lifts up and starts stripping. "Okay." James wants to ask about Tressa as Nick exposes a body that used to be taut and lean and beautifully golden. It's pasty-pale now, pudgy and overbearing. Still sexy, though. Or maybe James is just an eternal horn-dog and doesn't really give a damn. Probably the latter, though James wishes it wasn't. Whatever. Nicky's stretched out on his bed, cock dripping and hard against a nest of dark curls. It's fucking beautiful, for all the paunch above it. James grabs that cock and strokes it, knowing just what Nick likes though they've never done this before. Nick's not a complicated guy when it comes to sex, James accurately guesses. And James knows sex. In a bed, through a camera lens, or in front of a crowd. It's what he does and he makes damned sure he does it well. Nick's gasping and groaning as he's fingered open. It's easier than James' expects but he doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say, not as he flips Nick onto his belly, hands rubbing over broad expanse of back that still looks muscled despite the way the rest of him doesn't. James keeps running one hand up and down Nick's spine as he lines up and sinks in, counting the vertebrae as he works himself all the way in. "Fuck, oh, fuck," Nick keeps gasping, babbling into sheets James is definitely going to have to wash, and damned soon. "More." What Nick means is ‘harder' and James doesn't do that. Not even when Nick starts thrashing, fucking himself onto James cock to get the burning he needs. James stops him then, too, hands holding bucking hips still. He knows, he knows what Nick needs, the insane burn that shuts off the brain and tells the body to stop tensing. But he knows that quick and hard isn't always the way to get this. Forty comes with some advantages, especially if you're oversexed enough to put Viagra in the fucking shade. James fucks Nicky until he loses the manic edge of need and just lets go. Until Nick's spread out like jello on his bed, moaning and circling his hips with listless, diffident movements when he remembers he's supposed to be participating in some way. James is okay with that. He's selfish enough not to need the reciprocity, and good enough at dicking to last this long and continue sliding himself in slow and steady and amazing. He's balanced on an elbow, other hand rubbing the muscles at the base of Nick's back, releasing yet more endorphins or whatever the hell they're called that keeps you pliant and sated and flying. It's like drugs, only natural and addictive in the good way, something James' found out the hard way. When the need to come gets too strong he pulls Nicky up onto his knees and starts fisting the dark cock that James thinks maybe he'd like to suck sometime. Nick has a good cock to suck, not too big and almost perfectly straight. If it tastes as good as the skin at Nick's neck, then James is gonna have a field day. But that's later, because Nick is making little choking gasps, meeting each solid thrust with a hitch of lost breath, almost crying into the pillow. No, not almost. Actually crying, and James knows if he draws this out too much longer, he's going to break Nicky. So he pinches the head of Nick's cock and jabs extra deep and hard, growling some bit of nonsense that sound sexy and deep. Individual or combination, it pushes Nicky over and he comes with a drawn out moan of pained relief as he spills all over James' hand and James' sheets. Nick's fluttering around him, still making that choked-off sobbing sound as he works the last of his orgasm out of his body and that's enough for James. He grabs Nick hard enough that he can feel bone underneath the padding, bruising skin as he empties himself and fills Nicky all at once. * * * * They wake up sticky but James is pretty sure he's not the only one who feels clean inside. Twisted, sure, but since when isn't his life twisted? Twisted enough that he doesn't try and slip out of bed and into the shower, because if there's something Nick can't claim, it's that he was drunk last night. So he knew and they knew and James is going to lay sated and calm in his own goddamned bed for a few minutes longer and wonder why he always sleeps better when there's something warm next to him. They don't talk when Nick finally rolls up and onto his feet. He's not looking ashamed either, just tired in the good way and smiling a little. It's been a long time since Nick smiled and James allows himself to gloat just a little. Yeah, he is a damned good lay. Not that the sex is what put that smile on Nick's face. They shower, laughing and pushing like kids. Nicky purposefully drops the soap but when James stands back up with the slippery white bar in his hand, all he gets is a kiss for his trouble. It's a sweet kiss. The kind you give friends, tasting of Three Musketeer Bars and summer sunshine, endless promises and the perfect pink life James has never known, but occasionally plays on tv. No tongue, just lips and a hint of teeth on his lower lip, which James reciprocates happily. But it's over soon and they're dried and dressed and checking their schedules to see when they have to be back in the makeup trailers, bitching about this necessity and that. Normal shit. No one notices when James and Nick leave James trailer together. And no one hears when James says, "I've been there." Or when Nick nods and says, "Yeah. I'll probably be back." -End