Safe As Houses - Part One
Summary: This takes place in an AU season 5 or maybe after - no Connor, no Lilah, no Fred and Gunn breaking up, no Angel and Spike hate each other.
Sometimes, Spike thought this town couldn’t possibly get any more boring. Yeah, there were monsters and demons to fight, which was great, but as far as his social life was going, things were looking bleak, to say the least.
He was spending his usual Friday evening at the local “We Call Ourselves A British Pub” establishment, playing the game where he listed out all the things that made the place definitively not a British pub. The dartboards were some electronic things that lit up and flashed points on a digital scoreboard above them, for one thing. That was probably the one that pissed Spike off more than anything else. So, he observed, silently bitched and seethed, and then suddenly lost his train of thought as he noticed the man coming through the front door and heading toward an empty seat on the other side of the bar.
Well, well, well. Wasn’t this an interesting development? Spike fixed his steely blue gaze on the man until he finally looked in his direction. And rolled his eyes, appearing to be exceptionally put-upon. Still, he moved to Spike’s side of the bar and took the empty seat next to him, nodding but not going so far as to actually say hello.
“Evening, Percy. Come here for a reminder of home, do you?”
Oh. That got a reaction. Spike figured Wesley was just going to chastise him for the unwanted nickname, but that’s not what he got in return.
“Televisions. Honestly? Do these wankers even have passports?”, Wesley responded, clearly annoyed.
Spike was pleasantly surprised. Not only because he’d never heard the Watcher use that kind of language before, but because he was clearly criticizing the place in the same way that Spike was.
Without waiting for a reply, Wesley continued, “And the electronic dartboards? What the bloody hell is that? They just assume no one actually understands the game? It’s pretty simple, I’m sure even you understand it”, he concluded, a sneer lurking just below that clipped accent.
“Sure, Watcher, you know some street kid like me spent plenty of time in pubs playing darts back when I was A Real Boy. Not like you, bet you never went into a pub until you were of drinking age, and even then, probably wouldn’t bet five quid on a game.” Spike was bristling now, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.
Wesley had already almost finished his first beer by this time, clearly drinking quickly, and Spike was surprised to hear him ordering a second Worthington. He hoped his own Bass wouldn’t seem too pedestrian and decided he’d get himself a Worthington for the next round. Wait a minute, why the bloody hell did he care if his beer choice seemed…nevermind. Forget it. Stupid.
Placing his palm around glass number two, Wesley pointed a level glare at Spike. “Don’t think you can fool me, Spike. Go on to anyone else with that contrived accent and your sorry punk-rock imitation. You think it’s an insult that you call me Watcher? I know you, William Pratt, and the home you found at Oxford, nourishing your poetry and your eccentric way of looking at the world around you. Maybe you can fool some of these Yanks, but you never fooled Rupert for a minute, and you certainly can’t pull one over onme. Some street kid you were, growing up in privilege and going to university.”
Bloody Angelus and his fat Neanderthal mouth. “What? Angel tell you all kinds of secrets about me?” Spike suddenly felt ill at ease, as if his carefully constructed façade was at risk of becoming sheer.
“Have you forgotten the reason why you refuse to address me by my proper name, Spike? The reason why I don’t address you by yourproper name? You call me Watcher, like it’s an insult. You know I went to the academy. I know more about you than Angel probably does, if only because he never bothered to ask. So proud of the reputation that William the Bloody left behind, do you think it’s not all recorded in our history books? You can’t possibly be as stupid a git as you pretend to be. I know more about you than any of the other people in this ragged little group we like to call our friends.”
Wesley took another long drag from his glass, still staring Spike down as if he expected a response. Well, all right, Spike had a response. Although maybe it was a weak one, he tried the easiest part first.
“We like to call them our friends? Is that how you see it? Always looked to me like you were bloody grateful to have friends. Even sounds to me like maybe you wanted more than just a friend in Fred, but what do I know? You could certainly have charmed her in a heartbeat before our Charlie-boy got to her”, he sneered, feeling like he might have won a point when he saw the there-and-gone look of anger in Wesley’s eyes.
Those eyes. How could he not ever have noticed how…fuck. Fuck all, fuck all, shut up, clearly Spike had had too much to drink already. Though really, he hadn’t. But he had to blame it on something, and there was beer right there in front of him, and the beer couldn’t talk back, so beer got the blame.
“You know better. We’re thrown together. A common cause, sure, some emotional connections here and there, clearly you’ve known Angel for a hundred years or more, but in the end it’s just this band of stragglers up against something we know is bigger than us.”
Spike had not ever gotten drunk with the Watcher before, but he realized he wouldn’t have pegged him for a maudlin drunk. Maybe the kind that did silly things like sing or tell raunchy jokes, but not the kind that let booze press the truth to the surface and force its way out into the open.
Spike didn’t really have anything meaningful to say at the moment to respond to what Wesley had just dropped on him out of the blue. Blue, like his eyes. Blue…fucking shut up, beer. You have no place in this conversation, so shut your beer mouth and quit looking at Wesley’s eyes.
“You’re smarter than you look, Watcher. But if you ever tell anyone I went to Oxford, I’ll make you wish I really am dumber than a sack of hammers, got it?”
Wesley laughed. Really laughed, in this genuine way that Spike hadn’t seen or heard before. The sound had this way about it that made Spike laugh right along with him. All of a sudden, instead of a tense, unfortunate, after-work-hours run-in, it seemed like they were just two blokes away from home enjoying each other’s company.
“Get us a couple more beers, Spike, and let’s see how this electronic dart board works.”
“Heathen.”, Spike, replied, but he ordered the drinks as Wesley moved fluidly across the front of the bar to the place where the boards were hung on the wall.
An hour and three beers each later, electronic darts had become horrifically boring to both of them. They’d had a blast making fun of it, though, there was no denying that. An easy camaraderie had settled between them, which was new, but for some reason didn’t feel strange at all.
As they were settling up with the bartender, Spike told Wesley he’d had a good time and suggested that maybe they would run into each other again there sometime. Wesley readily agreed, and with a clap on Spike’s shoulder, he was gone.
An odd evening, to be sure, but certainly a fluke.
The “fluke” theory was borne out when everyone returned to the Wolfram and Hart offices after the weekend and it felt this as though this moment of bonding or whatever the fuck it was had never happened between the man and the vampire. It was clear to Spike that each of them treated the other in the slightly professional but ever sarcastic manner that they had previously, and nothing seemed to have changed.
It went on like that for another couple of weeks, until another regular Friday night at the pub found Spike turning toward the door with a sense of something familiar. Wesley. There he was, walking through the front door, and directly toward him as if they’d made arrangements to meet.
“Tried the fish and chips yet?”, Wesley asked with a half-crooked smile.
“Bollocks. Wouldn’t even bother. I’m sticking with what they know how to do”, Spike replied, gesturing at the basket of hot wings in front of him.
Tonight, they didn’t bother with darts. They chatted easily and drank beer and enjoyed each other’s company and ignored the fact that they had been pretending that this hadn’t already happened once before.
As last call approached, Wesley leaned over and whispered conspiratorially to Spike, “I’ve got Macallan at my place. No last call there.”
Spike knew for certain that Wesley wasn’t drunk, if his words had been even a little slurred he would have recognized it. He took approximately eight seconds to think over the offer before he accepted. Sexy end of the night stubble, piercing eyes, slender fingers…none of that even entered Spike’s mind as he thought of free expensive whiskey and easy company. Those things had no influence over his decision. At all.
Until he got outside and realized Wesley had an extra helmet strapped on to the side of his bike. Was it always there, just in case? Spike had never paid much attention to Wesley’s bike before. Or had he put it there tonight planning to bring someone home with him? Someone. Not Spike specifically, just, you know…someone. No matter. Spike didn’t want to wear it anyway. A completely predictable argument ensued.
“Vampire, mate. Remember? Not going to get killed in a car crash, for fuck’s sake.”
“What if we run into a tractor-trailer and you get decapitated? That’ll kill you, idiot, or did you forget that little detail?”
“Helmets are for pansies. And humans.”
“So which am I? Or am I both?” Wesley waited for a response, which seemed to be a long time coming. The only response he got was Spike grudgingly pulling the helmet on and fastening the chin strap.
“Fine. You’re feeding me whiskey, I’ll wear the nancy-boy helmet. Happy?”
Wesley didn’t reply, (thought he was, in fact, happy) and just waited for Spike to settle behind him on the bike as he started driving.
Wesley’s place was…well, it was pretty much exactly what Spike had expected it to be. Not that he’d given a moment’s thought to what it would be like. But if he had, then yes, this is what he would have expected. Sparsely furnished, a wall of books lining one entire side of the front room, and immaculately clean.
Leading Spike into the kitchen, Wes took two cut glass tumblers from a cabinet and filled them generously from a bottle of whiskey Spike had never even seen before. It wasn’t Macallan. The first sip told him all he needed to know - this wasn’t the kind of liquor you gulped down like a shot. It was the kind that you savored every mouthful of, the kind that was old and rare and expensive. Spike had only ever had anything like this when he’d stolen it from Angel’s private stash, and even then, it was Jameson or some other Irish whiskey, not the same.
After taking a moment to truly appreciate that first taste, Spike stopped to study his drinking partner, who seemed to have the same amount of reverence and respect for the drink that was clearly right there in his kitchen, at his disposal whenever he liked. Wes looked over at Spike, raised his glass, and said “We do good things, you know. Here’s to doing good things.”
Spike clinked his glass against Wesley’s, automatically repeating “To doing good things”, as he’d had plenty of experience with toasting a drink to whatever the person doing the toasting had said.
Three tumblers later, Wesley was clearly hammered, and even Spike was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. That didn’t stop either of them from moving closer into each other’s space, and obviously there was nothing that could have hit the brakes on Spike’s flawed judgment when he leaned in and captured Wesley’s pretty mouth in a passionate kiss. For a moment, he felt a bit guilty, but when Wes moved his hand against the back of Spike’s neck and deepened the kiss, well…judgment could just go bugger itself.
There was a flurry of movement, both of them standing, breaking the kisses long enough to shed each other’s clothing and move toward Wesley’s bed, which was large but plain and of course was covered in pristine and completely unwrinkled sheets and blankets which were pulled into tight corners at every edge. For now.
Those blankets and pillows and sheets didn’t stand a chance against the sexual tension that had broken in their presence at that moment. Wes and Spike fell heavily onto the bed, Spike taking the lead and pulling himself on top of Wesley. By this point they were both completely nude, and Spike ground down onto Wesley, feeling their erections meet and as they thrust against each other with utter abandon. Wes felt hot, so fucking hot, like he should feel, like a man, and Spike fought the urge to let his fangs come out to play. Instead, they kept kissing, touching each other’s faces, holding tight to each other’s shoulders as their cocks ground together and the friction brought them both closer to orgasm with each passing second. Wesley was murmuring something Spike recognized as Latin as his body drew tight, stilled, orgasm tearing through him as he practically groaned Spike’s name. The feel and the smell and the sound of it was enough to send Spike over the edge, spilling onto Wesley’s stomach and taking breaths he didn’t need.
There was no talking afterward. It didn’t feel awkward, there was just no real need on either of their parts to say anything. Sleep came quickly to them both.
Wesley woke up alone. He wasn’t surprised.
Again, at the office, it was as if nothing had changed. The two of them avoided being alone, out of an abundance of caution on both of their parts, and when they were in a group setting their dynamic was as it had always been - cutting sarcasm and smartass remarks going in both directions.
Spike felt something he couldn’t name. Something not quite right. He wasn’t sure how to classify it but he was certain that he didn’t really want to try.
Wesley felt used. And angry. Angry with Spike, he wasn’t sure why. Angry with himself, for giving a shit what Spike felt or didn’t feel after what had happened between them. He didn’t go back to the pub for a long time. What had he expected? Fuck if he knew, it was all just a jumbled up mix of wanting and not wanting, being certain and being uncertain, and definitely not willing to take the risk of running into Spike outside of work anytime soon.
Weeks had passed since the one-night stand between Spike and Wes, and things seemed to be getting back to normal. Spike had chosen a new bar in which to spend his Friday nights, a bit farther from where he lived and much farther than Wesley’s place. It was seedy and loud and obnoxious and he knew for sure there was no chance he’d run into Wes there.
On a typical night, drinking bottled American beer and eating one of those fried onion things (because he was broke, okay?), Spike considered livening up his night with a game of billiards, but changed his mind when an exceptionally adorable brunette parked herself next to him at the bar. Ten minutes told him all he needed to know. She was a talkative drunk who’d just ended a long and tumultuous relationship that had left her feeling lonely and needing companionship. How sad for her. How lucky for Spike. He had her what he thought was pretty snockered by the time he suggested they go back to his place for a more quiet atmosphere where they could talk some more. She stumbled (it looked like) from her barstool and followed him out of the front doors. They’d walked about two blocks before her face changed completely in front of Spike’s eyes and she hauled him into an alley between two buildings.
Despite his usual preternatural strength, he found himself unable to move as she dug her nails into his shoulder, pressing holes into his t-shirt and drawing blood. She was…what the hell? She was chanting. Like some kind of ritual. Fuck all. A witch. A goddamned witch, for the love of all that was good and holy in this world, Spike was so drunk and stupid and horny that he’d left the bar with a sodding witch. Maybe it was time for Wesley to keep his promise to pretend that Spike was dumber than a bag of hammers. Though he wouldn’t be pretending, because it was obviously true. How the hell did he get himself into this kind of bollocks? His dick. That’s how. Simple question, simple answer.
The witch managed to move her hands from his shoulders to his abdomen, scratching across his shirt and making more holes with her long fingernails, still chanting something unintelligible. And it hurt, honestly, every touch like a burn and a cut at the same time, even causing the edges of his vision to go a little blurry for a moment.
He got his wits about him after a moment or two and managed to push the bitch away. She ran, fast, and didn’t look back. Spike felt pretty satisfied, actually fairly smug. Whoever the girl thought she was, she wasn’t a very threatening witch. Not powerful like his old friend Red, clearly, because he felt just fine now. He had no idea what she’d said, but there were no strange feelings, no unexplained actions, no out of character behaviors on his part. Regardless of whatever the crazy bint thought she’d accomplished, the so-called witch had done nothing to him worse than tearing his shirt, as even the marks across his collarbone and abdomen were already fading.
Spike cleared his head and made his way home, secretly feeling kind of lucky. Not the kind of lucky as if he’d gotten a girl back into his bed tonight, but the kind of lucky as if he had run into a completely harmless witch not at all like Willow who could have actually done serious damage but didn’t. He also felt just a tiny bit ridiculous for having been afraid for a moment back there in that alley, but he willed himself to forget about it and was asleep half an hour before the sun came up.
When he showed up at Wolfram & Hart the next evening, he felt completely fine. A bit foolish, yes, but that was fading fast. He swore to himself that he’d do his drinking alone in his flat for the time being, on account of not wanting to be unknowingly accosted by witches. No reason to invite trouble, right? And it’s not like he’d be out drinking with Wesley again anytime soon, that much was abundantly clear.
A week passed, then two, and it seemed things had gotten maybe back to some sense of normalcy. Spike and Wesley continued to avoid being alone, and that had given them both a feeling of safety and relief, that maybe they could chalk up what had happened to a drunken encounter that was devoid of meaning or specific desire, just something that resulted from a need for physical contact, not because of with whom the contact had occurred.
Almost another week went by before it happened. Angel had sent Spike with a document to be delivered to Wesley’s officenow, and there was no reasonable explanation he could give to refuse.
Wesley’s door was open, and he was engrossed in a large dusty old tome, making notes on a legal pad and not looking up as Spike watched him from the doorway for a moment. Eventually, Spike knocked on the open door, the document Angel had given him held out in front of him like a shield, and before he knew it, he was stepping inside the office mumbling some nonsense about here was this thing he was supposed to deliver.
Behind his desk, Wes attempted to slow his heartbeat to a reasonable rate. He hadn’t forgotten what had happened between the two of them, and he hadn’t (despite a fairly considerable effort) been able to banish the feelings he had of wanting to share that intimacy again, wanting to share his bed with Spike and do unimaginable (all right, so they weren’t unimaginable, Wesley had in fact imagined them all) things with him repeatedly. Clearly, this was not something Spike was interested in, based on his behavior in the past weeks, so he’d made a valiant attempt to put it out of his mind.
He’d failed miserably.
Wesley rose from his chair, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was more than half-hard already just from being in the same room as Spike, and took the paper with a sincere thank you and a quick smile before he returned to his seat. He expected that Spike would take the opportunity to flee, but that’s not what happened. Spike just stood there, looking at him.
“What is it?” Wes asked.
Spike had clearly lost his mind, because when he opened his mouth to say it was nothing and turn around to leave, he instead leaned in closer across the desk and said “I want you. Please.”
Wesley moved around to the other side of his desk, and pulled Spike in for a passionate kiss that lasted for longer than either of them expected, given the snap of the tension that had just been released. After a few moments, Wes shut the door and clothes began to be shed all over the floor. There was an awkward moment when Spike had some trouble with Wesley’s tie, they both laughed a bit as Wesley removed it himself so that Spike could get on with unbuttoning his shirt and they could get closer to what they wanted to be. Which, incidentally, was naked. It didn’t take long, even with Spike having to stop a minute to unlace and kick off his boots. In an insane moment of courage, Wesley grabbed Spike around the waist and pushed him up onto the edge of the desk. This was what he wanted, and if past events had taught him anything, he knew he had to take it while it was available. If Spike didn’t want it this way, he could throw Wesley across the room with barely the strength it took to lift a finger, which he didn’t, so Wes figured that no objection was forthcoming.
Wesley’s tongue traced a line from Spike’s throat to his chest, then glanced across his nipples, earning him a startled noise and what he was fairly certain sounded like hitched breaths. He got his hand around Spike’s cock and Spike honest to God moaned and ground closer into Wesley’s body, his hands digging trenches into the back of Wesley’s shoulders, drawing the tiniest rivulets of blood. For fear of taking things too far, Wesley stopped himself from placing a drop of the blood onto Spike’s lips, but the thought was there, without a doubt on both of their minds.
“Get on with it, mate, you’re teasing and you know it”, Spike growled. Wes was more than happy to move the show along, as he was achingly hard and growing more desperate by the minute to have his cock inside Spike’s ass.
He started with a couple of sweat and spit slicked fingers pushing into Spike’s entrance, then he figured what the hell, vampire, he’ll be fine, and just lined up his cock and pushed inside while Spike held onto the edge of the desk and let the slightest growl escape his lips with the intrusion.
Wesley had no illusions, didn’t think there was any reason to hold back, so he pulled out almost all the way immediately and then sunk back inside with a snap of his hips hard enough that he could hear his flesh colliding with Spike’s. He knew he wasn’t hurting him, so he just did what felt natural, which amounted to fucking Spike so hard that he’d have to put in a requisition for a new desk with the purchasing department the next day. Neither of them lasted long, Wesley consumed by the tight heat around his cock, and Spike with the friction of grinding against Wesley’s stomach. When Wesley reached his hand between them to stroke Spike, it only took a minute before he coated them both with his orgasm, and Wesley pushed inside of him five, six, seven more times before he was coming too, filling Spike with his seed and making even more of a mess.
They both took a moment to catch their breath, then their brains started functioning again. Wesley stepped away, reaching for his boxers, mumbling some sort of apology. Spike laughed, standing up with no shame for his nudity and asked Wes what the hell he was apologizing for. “Best fuck I’ve had in ages, Watcher, don’t worry, I’m not going to tell on you or anything.”
Slowly, with deliberate care, Spike managed to get back into his clothes, including his boots, and reached over to tousle Wesley’s hair. “Thanks, mate. Good night”, he said, his back already turned as he opened the office door and walked away.
As predicted, the next few weeks went the same as the past couple of weeks had been. They never talked about it, and certainly didn’t repeat it. The two of them avoided being alone, again, and didn’t seek out each other’s company for any reason. It was another one-time-thing, clearly, they’d both done a fairly decent job of convincing themselves, and they could just move on like it never happened.
Part Two