cheesycats (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cheesycats) wrote2006-05-02 08:39 pm
cheesycats) wrote2006-05-02 08:39 pm
Wesley/Spike fic
Fic inspired by Alexis's god-awful movie debut in Murder Story. Title from a line in that movie. Wesley and Spike, Rated R, a little under 1000 words. Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
disgracelands and bogwitch for assistance with the English landscape.
Burley, Hampshire, 1987
Spike downed his fourth—or was it his fifth?—shot of whiskey and scrutinized the table of teenage boys on the other side of the pub. Scrawny, spotty little twits from the Watchers Academy, he reckoned, released from their musty tome-laden prison for a little weekend fun in town. He was surprised any Watcher or Watcher-In-Training would want to be any place but the library, even on the weekend, as much as the uptight buggers seemed to get off on research.
He was sick to death of Watchers. He’d been up to his undead eyeballs in them since he’d arrived in Burley a week ago. Word had it the current Slayer and her Watcher were planning a secret visit to the Academy. So far neither had shown. It didn’t help matters that Drusilla had been making a right glutton of herself on the local pre-school population. They’d have to leave soon before the locals caught on. Otherworldly things weren’t unusual here, but even the cleverest vampires wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.
Spike was feeling a bit peckish, but there was none of this lot he’d even consider tasting—except one.
He was a tall, skinny lad, barely seventeen by the look of him, his neat Oxford shirt oversized and hanging off his spare frame, his jeans baggy despite their slender cut. All arms and legs he was. Spike watched him trip over his feet and spill his pint more than once on his way from the bar.
But behind the boy’s wire-rimmed spectacles were brilliant blue eyes sparkling with intelligence. His thick brown hair, which probably was combed flat during the school week, had begun to fall into his eyes. His complexion was smooth and unusually fine for a boy his age, and much too lovely for a boy of any age. High cheekbones, chiseled jaw, good teeth. He was almost too beautiful.
Spike wanted him. Not just to drink. He wanted him. Wanted to keep him and enjoy him. Savor him. Fuck him. Ruin him. He was much too pretty a boy to feast on and toss aside carelessly.
He continued to watch the boy and waited for an opportunity. He thought he had it when the boy rose and walked toward his table, most likely on his way to the gents or the telephone. Spike readied himself to move when one of the other boys called out, just as the lad was mere inches away.
“Wesley! Come on, we’re going to be late.”
The boy turned his head and Spike got a good look at his slender neck. Oh, he was going to be a sweet treat.
“I told Trevor I’d ring him if we decided to go,” the boy answered.
“Didn’t you hear? Trevor was called home for the weekend. His mum’s ill again.”
“Oh. Right, then.” The boy returned to his friends. Noisily, they left the pub.
Spike liked to finish what he started. He couldn’t let this one get away. He walked outside and lit a fag as he watched them rambling down the High Street. He started to follow after them when he heard Drusilla’s voice from behind.
“No pretty boys for my pretty Spike tonight.”
Fuck. She had finished feeding early.
He turned to look at her. “Not now, Dru. Found a little nibble I quite fancy.”
She wagged her finger at him. “He isn’t ready. He needs to bake. Not a biscuit yet.”
Spike sighed in exasperation and turned to follow the boys. Drusilla grabbed his arm. “Naughty Spike! Fingers out of the biscuit tin!”
“Oh, come on, love, I’ll share him, if that’s what you’re on about.”
She smiled at him, her cheeks flushed from a recent kill. “I’ve found something much more delicious, my Spike.”
“And what’s that, pet?”
Drusilla pointed one ruby-tipped finger at a figure across the street. An old man, tweedy and scholarly, walked past.
“Our Watcher?” Spike whispered.
Drusilla giggled. “Yes. He has a sweet young girl with him at the inn. Pretty, pretty thing. Pretty blue eyes she has. I like blue eyes, don’t you?”
She squealed in delight as Spike twirled her around. “Yes, I bloody well do. You can have her eyes, pet, when I’m done with the rest of her.”
They strode toward the inn, the pretty blue-eyed boy forsaken in the quest for Slayer blood.
-----------
Los Angeles, 2003
It took Spike awhile to realize he’d seen Wesley before. He’d been so absorbed in getting over his ghostliness and so many other things that he hadn’t made the connection.
One day in a meeting Angel had called Wesley’s name and he turned his head to answer—just like the young boy in the pub had done—and Spike remembered. Wesley. He’d been a Watcher. Would’ve been the right age then, too, for the Academy. Wesley turned back around and Spike took a good look into his eyes. Not only could he remember every one of his kills, he could also remember the ones who got away.
Yeah, no doubt about it. It had been Wesley. The one he’d cast aside so he could pursue his glory as the Slayer of Slayers. Drusilla’s pretty blue-eyed girl turned out to be the elderly Watcher’s granddaughter. She was a sweet morsel, but she was no Slayer. The real Slayer never showed.
Wesley’s brow furrowed at Spike’s curious stare. “Spike? Is something wrong?”
Spike awoke from his reverie. “Yeah. Um, no. Nothing’s wrong. Look, are we done here?”
Wesley nodded. “Yes. This will keep until tomorrow. I think we can call it a day.”
Spike knew Wesley could no longer satisfy his bloodlust. But there were other needs he could satisfy. Odds were adult Wesley had much more to offer than boy Wesley ever could. Anyway, Spike liked to finish what he started.
“Hey, Wes. Care to join me for a pint?”
disgracelands and bogwitch for assistance with the English landscape.Burley, Hampshire, 1987
Spike downed his fourth—or was it his fifth?—shot of whiskey and scrutinized the table of teenage boys on the other side of the pub. Scrawny, spotty little twits from the Watchers Academy, he reckoned, released from their musty tome-laden prison for a little weekend fun in town. He was surprised any Watcher or Watcher-In-Training would want to be any place but the library, even on the weekend, as much as the uptight buggers seemed to get off on research.
He was sick to death of Watchers. He’d been up to his undead eyeballs in them since he’d arrived in Burley a week ago. Word had it the current Slayer and her Watcher were planning a secret visit to the Academy. So far neither had shown. It didn’t help matters that Drusilla had been making a right glutton of herself on the local pre-school population. They’d have to leave soon before the locals caught on. Otherworldly things weren’t unusual here, but even the cleverest vampires wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.
Spike was feeling a bit peckish, but there was none of this lot he’d even consider tasting—except one.
He was a tall, skinny lad, barely seventeen by the look of him, his neat Oxford shirt oversized and hanging off his spare frame, his jeans baggy despite their slender cut. All arms and legs he was. Spike watched him trip over his feet and spill his pint more than once on his way from the bar.
But behind the boy’s wire-rimmed spectacles were brilliant blue eyes sparkling with intelligence. His thick brown hair, which probably was combed flat during the school week, had begun to fall into his eyes. His complexion was smooth and unusually fine for a boy his age, and much too lovely for a boy of any age. High cheekbones, chiseled jaw, good teeth. He was almost too beautiful.
Spike wanted him. Not just to drink. He wanted him. Wanted to keep him and enjoy him. Savor him. Fuck him. Ruin him. He was much too pretty a boy to feast on and toss aside carelessly.
He continued to watch the boy and waited for an opportunity. He thought he had it when the boy rose and walked toward his table, most likely on his way to the gents or the telephone. Spike readied himself to move when one of the other boys called out, just as the lad was mere inches away.
“Wesley! Come on, we’re going to be late.”
The boy turned his head and Spike got a good look at his slender neck. Oh, he was going to be a sweet treat.
“I told Trevor I’d ring him if we decided to go,” the boy answered.
“Didn’t you hear? Trevor was called home for the weekend. His mum’s ill again.”
“Oh. Right, then.” The boy returned to his friends. Noisily, they left the pub.
Spike liked to finish what he started. He couldn’t let this one get away. He walked outside and lit a fag as he watched them rambling down the High Street. He started to follow after them when he heard Drusilla’s voice from behind.
“No pretty boys for my pretty Spike tonight.”
Fuck. She had finished feeding early.
He turned to look at her. “Not now, Dru. Found a little nibble I quite fancy.”
She wagged her finger at him. “He isn’t ready. He needs to bake. Not a biscuit yet.”
Spike sighed in exasperation and turned to follow the boys. Drusilla grabbed his arm. “Naughty Spike! Fingers out of the biscuit tin!”
“Oh, come on, love, I’ll share him, if that’s what you’re on about.”
She smiled at him, her cheeks flushed from a recent kill. “I’ve found something much more delicious, my Spike.”
“And what’s that, pet?”
Drusilla pointed one ruby-tipped finger at a figure across the street. An old man, tweedy and scholarly, walked past.
“Our Watcher?” Spike whispered.
Drusilla giggled. “Yes. He has a sweet young girl with him at the inn. Pretty, pretty thing. Pretty blue eyes she has. I like blue eyes, don’t you?”
She squealed in delight as Spike twirled her around. “Yes, I bloody well do. You can have her eyes, pet, when I’m done with the rest of her.”
They strode toward the inn, the pretty blue-eyed boy forsaken in the quest for Slayer blood.
-----------
Los Angeles, 2003
It took Spike awhile to realize he’d seen Wesley before. He’d been so absorbed in getting over his ghostliness and so many other things that he hadn’t made the connection.
One day in a meeting Angel had called Wesley’s name and he turned his head to answer—just like the young boy in the pub had done—and Spike remembered. Wesley. He’d been a Watcher. Would’ve been the right age then, too, for the Academy. Wesley turned back around and Spike took a good look into his eyes. Not only could he remember every one of his kills, he could also remember the ones who got away.
Yeah, no doubt about it. It had been Wesley. The one he’d cast aside so he could pursue his glory as the Slayer of Slayers. Drusilla’s pretty blue-eyed girl turned out to be the elderly Watcher’s granddaughter. She was a sweet morsel, but she was no Slayer. The real Slayer never showed.
Wesley’s brow furrowed at Spike’s curious stare. “Spike? Is something wrong?”
Spike awoke from his reverie. “Yeah. Um, no. Nothing’s wrong. Look, are we done here?”
Wesley nodded. “Yes. This will keep until tomorrow. I think we can call it a day.”
Spike knew Wesley could no longer satisfy his bloodlust. But there were other needs he could satisfy. Odds were adult Wesley had much more to offer than boy Wesley ever could. Anyway, Spike liked to finish what he started.
“Hey, Wes. Care to join me for a pint?”
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Very nice. Aww, adorable ickle Wesley!
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You're not wrong there!
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Young Wesley was perfectly described.
I'm wondering what today's Spike wants with Wesley.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
I think he had naughty intentions.
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:-)
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I want to read more of this delightfully bruisable young Wesley. *g*
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Neat Drusilla voice too :)
The boy turned his head and Spike got a good look at his slender neck. Oh, he was going to be a sweet treat.
Oooooh, yummy :)