The Price of War
I still have feedback to answer, and I will tonight, but the iron is hot, and before I leave for work, I wanted to post another small drabble. Despite the title, this has nothing to do with Pilots. It's cannon Spangel, somewhere in the middle of season 5 AtS. I'm beginning to really like writing vignettes.
The Price of War
The shirt was ruined. That was clear even before Spike peeled the tatters away from the wound in his belly. Fuck. Now he’d have to beg, borrow, or steal another one, since this was his last. As much as he was an exhibitionist, he didn’t fancy fighting large, slimy demons half naked. Got a fellow all nasty, that did.
The blood loss he’d suffered was beginning to make him dizzy. He leaned back on an elbow, trying to prop himself up as the room did a slow loopty loop. Here he was, haring away at being a model citizen, and his fucked up Sire couldn’t even be bothered to give him a bit of medical attention after Spike had saved his mammoth arse. Weren’t the most fun thing he had ever done, neither----taking a four-foot long tusk in the gut that was meant for Angel. So what the hell else was new?
Things were getting a bit blurry around the edges when a semi-rough hand pushed him flat on his back, and a shadow fell over him.
“Can’t you do anything right?”
“‘Parently not. Witness my broken body bleedin’ its last for the privilege of pulling your bacon out of the fire.”
“Nobody asked you to. Specially not me.”
“Riiiight. I’m just ‘spose to stand there holdin’ my dick while you get a rhino horn up your back passage.”
“Hey! I can take care of myself, Spike. You just made it mad with all that yelling and jumping around.”
A hand pressed down over Spike’s where he was holding his intestines in. Too messy to let them spill out all over the floor. Git would probably charge him for the cleanup.
“Ugh. Ow. Leave off, Nurse Hatchet. You’re makin’ it worse. OW! For Christ sakes! You forgettin’ you’re a mild-mannered pillock now, not the Scourge of Europe?”
“I need to stop the bleeding, idiot. I’m not hurting you on purpose.”
“The hell. Ask me, you’re gettin’ off on it.” Spike groaned as fingers manipulated the ragged edges of the wound together, then bound it with what remained of his tee shirt. “Hell! Shite! Buggering nit! Leave off!” Screaming insults seemed a better way to go than just screaming, and Spike was too close for comfort on that one.
“Thought you were a little tougher, mama’s boy,” Angel goaded him.
“Leave my Mum outta this, wanker or when I get on my feet, I’ll eat that peanut in your chest you call a heart.”
Tears sprang to Spike’s eyes at the searing pain burning through his innards. He tried to blink them away, but they escaped in large, jeweled splashes to wash down the contours of his bruised cheeks.
“Look. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to...”
“Won’t take it from you.”
“Who said I was offering?” Angel arched an eyebrow, trying to keep the compassion and exasperation out of his voice. “I’ll heat up some bags.”
He swung the badly injured vampire into his arms and carried him to the bed, being careful not to be too gentle when he put him down and give Spike something else to rag on. Spike had too much pride for his own good, especially when it came to Angel.
“Here.”
Spike had managed to wiggle himself back against the pile of pillows. He looked alluring sprawled there, hair a mess, bare-chested, the bloody shirt cinched around his belly calling its soggy red temptation to Angel. Spike took the proffered mug, his hand unsteady. Angel wanted to help, but he knew from experience how that would be received. He kept his lips in a firm line, hiding his smile, when the blue gaze lifted belligerently to search for signs of sympathy.
“Right. ‘Bout time you made yourself useful. You owe me a bit of TLC.” Spike made a gesture to hand back the empty cup, then winced, curling in on himself, dropping it. “Bloody hell.”
He passed out with the efficiency of a light switch being flicked off. When he came to, Angel was on the bed beside him, one arm firmly around his shoulders, fingers stroking softly through the tangle of his hair.
“I’m right here,” a low voice whispered.
The tone penetrated Spike’s last defense. He turned his face into the broad chest.
“Daddy. I’m hurtin’. Make it stop.”
“I know, baby.” Angel eased Spike’s fly open, taking the soft length of cock into his hand, petting it with tender strokes while he rocked Spike in his arms.
“It’ll stop soon. Close your eyes. Think about the new shirt I’m gonna buy you.”
The Price of War
The shirt was ruined. That was clear even before Spike peeled the tatters away from the wound in his belly. Fuck. Now he’d have to beg, borrow, or steal another one, since this was his last. As much as he was an exhibitionist, he didn’t fancy fighting large, slimy demons half naked. Got a fellow all nasty, that did.
The blood loss he’d suffered was beginning to make him dizzy. He leaned back on an elbow, trying to prop himself up as the room did a slow loopty loop. Here he was, haring away at being a model citizen, and his fucked up Sire couldn’t even be bothered to give him a bit of medical attention after Spike had saved his mammoth arse. Weren’t the most fun thing he had ever done, neither----taking a four-foot long tusk in the gut that was meant for Angel. So what the hell else was new?
Things were getting a bit blurry around the edges when a semi-rough hand pushed him flat on his back, and a shadow fell over him.
“Can’t you do anything right?”
“‘Parently not. Witness my broken body bleedin’ its last for the privilege of pulling your bacon out of the fire.”
“Nobody asked you to. Specially not me.”
“Riiiight. I’m just ‘spose to stand there holdin’ my dick while you get a rhino horn up your back passage.”
“Hey! I can take care of myself, Spike. You just made it mad with all that yelling and jumping around.”
A hand pressed down over Spike’s where he was holding his intestines in. Too messy to let them spill out all over the floor. Git would probably charge him for the cleanup.
“Ugh. Ow. Leave off, Nurse Hatchet. You’re makin’ it worse. OW! For Christ sakes! You forgettin’ you’re a mild-mannered pillock now, not the Scourge of Europe?”
“I need to stop the bleeding, idiot. I’m not hurting you on purpose.”
“The hell. Ask me, you’re gettin’ off on it.” Spike groaned as fingers manipulated the ragged edges of the wound together, then bound it with what remained of his tee shirt. “Hell! Shite! Buggering nit! Leave off!” Screaming insults seemed a better way to go than just screaming, and Spike was too close for comfort on that one.
“Thought you were a little tougher, mama’s boy,” Angel goaded him.
“Leave my Mum outta this, wanker or when I get on my feet, I’ll eat that peanut in your chest you call a heart.”
Tears sprang to Spike’s eyes at the searing pain burning through his innards. He tried to blink them away, but they escaped in large, jeweled splashes to wash down the contours of his bruised cheeks.
“Look. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to...”
“Won’t take it from you.”
“Who said I was offering?” Angel arched an eyebrow, trying to keep the compassion and exasperation out of his voice. “I’ll heat up some bags.”
He swung the badly injured vampire into his arms and carried him to the bed, being careful not to be too gentle when he put him down and give Spike something else to rag on. Spike had too much pride for his own good, especially when it came to Angel.
“Here.”
Spike had managed to wiggle himself back against the pile of pillows. He looked alluring sprawled there, hair a mess, bare-chested, the bloody shirt cinched around his belly calling its soggy red temptation to Angel. Spike took the proffered mug, his hand unsteady. Angel wanted to help, but he knew from experience how that would be received. He kept his lips in a firm line, hiding his smile, when the blue gaze lifted belligerently to search for signs of sympathy.
“Right. ‘Bout time you made yourself useful. You owe me a bit of TLC.” Spike made a gesture to hand back the empty cup, then winced, curling in on himself, dropping it. “Bloody hell.”
He passed out with the efficiency of a light switch being flicked off. When he came to, Angel was on the bed beside him, one arm firmly around his shoulders, fingers stroking softly through the tangle of his hair.
“I’m right here,” a low voice whispered.
The tone penetrated Spike’s last defense. He turned his face into the broad chest.
“Daddy. I’m hurtin’. Make it stop.”
“I know, baby.” Angel eased Spike’s fly open, taking the soft length of cock into his hand, petting it with tender strokes while he rocked Spike in his arms.
“It’ll stop soon. Close your eyes. Think about the new shirt I’m gonna buy you.”