FIC - If You Don't Expect Too Much From Me
Title: If You Don’t Expect Too Much From Me
Rating: R
Pairing: Spike/Wesley (Spike POV)
W/C: ~900
Summary: No sense in hiding something that’s already been seen.
I’m not stupid, or anything. Honest, I’m not, and I know I put a lot of effort into my act, the fake accent, the vulgar language, the running headlong into dangerous situations…I get that. It works to my advantage, most of the time, for people to think I’m short-sighted, uneducated, slow on the uptake.
A few people have seen the truth. Some, just because they could, there was nothing I could do about it. Rupert and his years of studying in the Watcher’s Council, he sailed past my exterior in a hot second, never bothered to pretend, but didn’t let on to anyone else, to his credit. Buffy, because I’d shown her on purpose, I’d let my real self be known to her in any one of a thousand moments of weakness because I loved her, which only proves that I can be stupid some of the time.
Everyone is stupid every now and then. Can’t blame a bloke for that, now can you?
Angel got it eventually, not Angelus, because Angelus didn’t give a flying fuck and never bothered to think much of me at all. But Angel…there have been a few times I could tell, he got it, he saw through my façade and, like Rupert, never let on to anyone else. He called me on it, though, which was refreshing in a way, but also maddening, because I didn’t want him to be the one to know anything real about me. Buffy, I gave it to her, but Angel, I didn’t want to give him a single sodding thing, broody fucking tosser. A hundred plus years, though, no getting around it eventually, I suppose.
“You’re not as daft as you pretend to be, Spike”, he’d said once, angry, that bit of brogue unintentionally creeping into his voice, bringing back good memories and bad, century-old feelings that trapped me in the past, that old feeling of wanting to make him proud of me, which I’d long since abandoned in favor of wanting to make him pissed off at me. Not that it took that much effort. He’s pissed at me most of the time, just for existing, among many other obvious reasons. Foremost being the fact that I’d shagged his girl a hundred times. Didn’t make a difference to Angel that she never loved me like she loved him (loves him), that she was kind to me after a long while but not in any way that would have made a difference.
So, it’s been established. Lots of people think I’m stupid, some know better, some don’t.
This, though…it’s something new and different and so utterly confusing that I haven’t quite figured out yet what to do with it.
Wesley knows the truth. He knows I went to university, he knows that my accent is fake and he knows most of the things I do are specifically designed to make people think I’m not very bright. But he never says anything. He doesn’t confront me, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t yell “bullshit” when he knows I’m pretending not to understand what he’s talking about. He’s got the look, though. The look that goes right through the outside of me and directly into what’s real. I know that look, because, as I told you before, I am not, in fact, an idiot. The truth is, I’m incredibly bright and I know lots of things that most of the people with whom I am acquainted assume I would never be able to work out on my own.
My immediate conclusion, of course, the first time he kisses me, is that it’s obvious I’ve wanted him to do just that for quite a while. Wesley has a way of sussing out those things that I don’t say. So I kiss him back, because I want to, and I need to make sure he knows I want to, even though I’m reasonably certain that this is information he’s already ascertained through his own observations.
Of course, it doesn’t stop with a kiss. Because if he knows I want him to kiss me, he knows I want him to fuck me. It’s a reasonable conclusion, after all, if you want to kiss someone, you don’t just want to kiss them. That’s a given, no matter who you’re talking about.
He takes me to bed, pulling me apart piece by piece, exposing every weakness I have, taking his time and certainly making mental notes about what kind of reaction he gets from me with every move. By the time it’s done, both of us spent and dirty and exhausted, he finally deigns to speak.
“I’d like to do this again, Will.”
And that’s it, that’s just fucking it, if he’s going to call me Will, just like that, then he’s gotten past every single barrier I’ve ever constructed. He hasn’t asked me if it’s all right for him to settle down there in that place on the other side of my self-made walls, he’s gone right ahead without thinking it’s necessary, he’s just taking what he wants. And he’s not going back. This is something new, and I’m afraid, but I won’t say it. I’ll only say this.
“Yes, please, I’d like that too.”
It’s the beginning of something, I’m not entirely sure what, but it’s more real than anything I’ve ever known before, and I’m sure as hell not going to give it up. Not for the sake of keeping a secret that’s already been spilled.
Rating: R
Pairing: Spike/Wesley (Spike POV)
W/C: ~900
Summary: No sense in hiding something that’s already been seen.
I’m not stupid, or anything. Honest, I’m not, and I know I put a lot of effort into my act, the fake accent, the vulgar language, the running headlong into dangerous situations…I get that. It works to my advantage, most of the time, for people to think I’m short-sighted, uneducated, slow on the uptake.
A few people have seen the truth. Some, just because they could, there was nothing I could do about it. Rupert and his years of studying in the Watcher’s Council, he sailed past my exterior in a hot second, never bothered to pretend, but didn’t let on to anyone else, to his credit. Buffy, because I’d shown her on purpose, I’d let my real self be known to her in any one of a thousand moments of weakness because I loved her, which only proves that I can be stupid some of the time.
Everyone is stupid every now and then. Can’t blame a bloke for that, now can you?
Angel got it eventually, not Angelus, because Angelus didn’t give a flying fuck and never bothered to think much of me at all. But Angel…there have been a few times I could tell, he got it, he saw through my façade and, like Rupert, never let on to anyone else. He called me on it, though, which was refreshing in a way, but also maddening, because I didn’t want him to be the one to know anything real about me. Buffy, I gave it to her, but Angel, I didn’t want to give him a single sodding thing, broody fucking tosser. A hundred plus years, though, no getting around it eventually, I suppose.
“You’re not as daft as you pretend to be, Spike”, he’d said once, angry, that bit of brogue unintentionally creeping into his voice, bringing back good memories and bad, century-old feelings that trapped me in the past, that old feeling of wanting to make him proud of me, which I’d long since abandoned in favor of wanting to make him pissed off at me. Not that it took that much effort. He’s pissed at me most of the time, just for existing, among many other obvious reasons. Foremost being the fact that I’d shagged his girl a hundred times. Didn’t make a difference to Angel that she never loved me like she loved him (loves him), that she was kind to me after a long while but not in any way that would have made a difference.
So, it’s been established. Lots of people think I’m stupid, some know better, some don’t.
This, though…it’s something new and different and so utterly confusing that I haven’t quite figured out yet what to do with it.
Wesley knows the truth. He knows I went to university, he knows that my accent is fake and he knows most of the things I do are specifically designed to make people think I’m not very bright. But he never says anything. He doesn’t confront me, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t yell “bullshit” when he knows I’m pretending not to understand what he’s talking about. He’s got the look, though. The look that goes right through the outside of me and directly into what’s real. I know that look, because, as I told you before, I am not, in fact, an idiot. The truth is, I’m incredibly bright and I know lots of things that most of the people with whom I am acquainted assume I would never be able to work out on my own.
My immediate conclusion, of course, the first time he kisses me, is that it’s obvious I’ve wanted him to do just that for quite a while. Wesley has a way of sussing out those things that I don’t say. So I kiss him back, because I want to, and I need to make sure he knows I want to, even though I’m reasonably certain that this is information he’s already ascertained through his own observations.
Of course, it doesn’t stop with a kiss. Because if he knows I want him to kiss me, he knows I want him to fuck me. It’s a reasonable conclusion, after all, if you want to kiss someone, you don’t just want to kiss them. That’s a given, no matter who you’re talking about.
He takes me to bed, pulling me apart piece by piece, exposing every weakness I have, taking his time and certainly making mental notes about what kind of reaction he gets from me with every move. By the time it’s done, both of us spent and dirty and exhausted, he finally deigns to speak.
“I’d like to do this again, Will.”
And that’s it, that’s just fucking it, if he’s going to call me Will, just like that, then he’s gotten past every single barrier I’ve ever constructed. He hasn’t asked me if it’s all right for him to settle down there in that place on the other side of my self-made walls, he’s gone right ahead without thinking it’s necessary, he’s just taking what he wants. And he’s not going back. This is something new, and I’m afraid, but I won’t say it. I’ll only say this.
“Yes, please, I’d like that too.”
It’s the beginning of something, I’m not entirely sure what, but it’s more real than anything I’ve ever known before, and I’m sure as hell not going to give it up. Not for the sake of keeping a secret that’s already been spilled.