Author: Flurblewig
Pairing: Giles/Spike, Ethan/Spike
Rating/Warnings: R for sexual content
Timeline/Spoilers: BtVS S4
Length: 2,000 words
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I just like to take them out and play with them sometimes.
A/N: Thanks & hugs to desoto_hia873 for the beta!
Feedback: Yes please! Email me or leave an LJ comment at the end of the fic
He still crumbles Weetabix into his blood, a habit that Giles has always found grotesque. It's bad enough that he should have to share living space with a creature that drinks blood in the first place, without the process being turned into some kind of culinary experiment.
"Do you have to do that? It's quite disgusting."
Spike pauses with the mug halfway to his lips. "Right, because watching you eat is such an aesthetic experience. Especially corn on the cob, with all the butter dripping down your finely chiselled chin. How lucky I am to have that pleasure."
Giles turns away with what he hopes is an expression of dismissive contempt. He hates it when Spike uses words like aesthetic - he doesn't like to be reminded that there is actually a pretty fine brain hidden under all that peroxide. It makes it harder to want to kill something when it insists on conversing with you in terms that, if you're being fair, most of your nearest and dearest would struggle with. Vampires should be restricted to grunts, growls and the occasional 'kill now'. They certainly shouldn't be allowed to talk about aesthetics. Or finely chiselled chins, come to that - admittedly a gratifying description, but not coming from Spike's lips.
He reaches for the Scotch and pours himself a generous measure. If he doesn't like to think about Spike's brain, he likes to think about his lips even less.
Spike holds out his mug, gesturing towards the bottle. "Well if I can't have Weetabix in it, you can at least let me have some of that."
Giles hesitates. That isn't a good idea. Loneliness, whisky and a too-beautiful face have got him into trouble before.
He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Of all the many, many things he doesn't like to think about, Ethan always remains near the top of the list.
"Well?" Spike waves his mug and raises an expectant eyebrow. "Come on, share and share alike. Be a good host, and all that."
He shouldn't. He should banish the thought of Ethan - an Ethan who's grinning salaciously and saying well, are you going to give the pretty vampire what he wants, Ripper? - and take both his Scotch and his sorry self upstairs to bed. Out of harm's -
(temptation's)
- way.
He picks up the bottle and tips another ample measure into the mug, and earns himself both a surprised-looking nod from Spike and a wicked, lascivious smirk from Ethan. He closes his eyes and tries his best to blot out both.
They both down their drinks in almost one long swallow.
"Good stuff," says Spike appreciatively, holding out the mug again with a hopeful expression.
He ignores it and takes another tumbler out of the cupboard, then refills both glasses. It feels vaguely sacrilegious to have his good Glenlivet mingling with the remnants of pig's blood and breakfast cereal in a Kiss the Librarian mug.
Ethan would think it both highly appropriate and completely hilarious, but then Ethan would take being called sacrilegious as a compliment.
Spike takes the glass and sips this time, sitting back on the sofa and spreading himself out like he owns the place.
Ethan would like Spike. A lot.
He tries not to think about how much, but the damned whisky has loosened the locks on mental doors he normally keeps shut, and his mind is choosing to torment him with a series of snapshot images that ably demonstrate how Ethan would show his appreciation.
He kicks Spike's feet off his coffee table with a viciousness that sends the vampire sprawling and affords him a momentary grim pleasure.
"Hey!" says Spike indignantly, the Scotch slopping over the rim of his glass to leave a wet patch on his shirt. He dabs at it ineffectually.
In his mind, Ethan slides languorously across the couch to divest Spike of the offending garment. Slender, pale hands brush across Spike's bare chest, followed by an eager, questing tongue.
Giles screws his eyes shut, but that just makes it worse. He slumps down in the armchair and wrests the remote control out of Spike's hand. The film he's watching is Platoon, which Giles is actually rather fond of, but a point needs to be made. He flicks through the channels, hardly registering what flashes across the screen.
Ethan laughs softly, that honeyed blend of affection and contempt he remembers so well
.Spike throws him a glance that wavers between amusement and annoyance. "Looking for porn, mate?"
Giles slams the remote down so hard it almost cracks the glass top of the table. He decides not to dignify that remark with a response, which seems to entertain Ethan even more.
"Ah, Ripper," he says, shaking his head sadly. "When did you become so pedestrian?"
Giles glares at him, then takes another long swallow from his glass.
Ethan nods towards Spike. "Sweet piece like that? The man I knew would have had him naked and screaming by now, and instead you're sitting there fighting over the remote control like a spotty teenager. Shame on you."
"Shut up," he growls.
Spike shrugs. "All right, keep your hair on. Just trying to pass the time of day, you know."
"Well, don't."
"Okay, okay. You're in a snit, I got it."
"I am not in a - a snit," he says.
Ethan laughs again. "I said you're acting like a teenager, didn't I? Even the vampire can see it."
He hurls the remote across the room, where it shatters into pieces against the wall.
Spike drains his glass. "Well you're doing a damn good impression of someone who is."
Without actually intending to move, Giles finds himself somehow in front of Spike. He smacks away the glass and bunches Spike's shirt in his fist.
"Shut your goddamn mouth," he spits out.
Spike looks back at him with one eyebrow raised and an expression of insouciant calm. "Or you'll do what, exactly?"
Giles sways slightly under the force of the déjà vu that washes over him. He's been here before. A different flat, a different time - a different insufferable boy - but oh yes, he's been here.
"I'll shut it for you," he says, following the script that his memory offers.
"And how are you going to do that?"
It's Spike that speaks, but it's Ethan he remembers saying the words.
He knows what comes next: he'll say like this, and shut that perfect, arrogant mouth by covering it with his own. He'll kiss Ethan-Spike-until he can't speak any more. Until he can't do anything but gasp out Giles's name.
He hesitates, feeling disoriented and bewildered - surely this isn't who he is any more? - but then Spike shifts a little closer and tilts his head and everything seems to move beyond Giles's control.
His lips ram against Spike's with bruising force. The vampire's mouth opens and gives Giles's questing tongue the access it demands. His hands rip Spike's shirt from his body and roam unchecked over smooth, cool skin. The flesh is hard and lean, and he luxuriates in the play of muscle over bone. It's strange and alien and yet so very, very familiar.
He's panting now, as Spike growls and drops to his knees. Those cool hands free Giles's aching cock from his trousers and he can't help a moan escaping as they stroke along the length and finally guide it between wet, willing lips.
He stills, as a small part of his brain fights against the almost overwhelming pleasure and tries to reassert - tries to remember - some sense of reality.
"No," he says, his voice guttural. Spike pulls back and looks up at him.
"Ripper," he says in Ethan's voice, and Giles is lost. It's too late; it probably always has been.
*
Spike pushes his way through the crowd of demons and thrill-seeking humans to the booth at the back of the bar. There's a lot more space at this end of the room, and the music is lower. This is where the serious business is carried out; the regulars know better than to intrude, and the newbies soon learn. He slips into the booth and slides along the red plastic seat, revelling in the look of deference on the face of the scantily-clad waitress who glides up as soon as he sits down. It's been a while since he's commanded that kind of respect in this place. In any place.
He waves her away, as there's already a bottle of tequila waiting on the table. He picks it up and pours out a shot, then raises the glass.
The man opposite him smiles and raises his own in return. "Well," he says. "I think that was rather a success, don't you?"
Spike tosses back the shot and slams the glass back down on the table. "You were right, I've got to give you that. Never would have thought the old boy had it in him."
Ethan drains his glass as well, and refills both of them. He sits back and rolls his shoulders, stretching like a contented cat. He practically exudes a kind of louche sexuality. Spike's not sure if it's some kind of remnant of the spell, or if it's part of Ethan's natural gifts. Either way, he's not complaining.
"Oh, he's got it in him, all right. Or, more accurately, in you." Ethan grins. "Or, even more accurately, in us."
Spike regards him thoughtfully. "So that really worked, huh? It was a proper two-way thing?"
Ethan nods. "Oh, yes. It worked remarkably well, even if I do say so myself. A full Sensurround experience. I certainly had the pleasure of - well, your pleasure. And to give credit where it's due, you were no slouch yourself in the performance department."
His voice has lowered, and filled with a seductive warmth. Damn, but the guy is good. Spike can feel himself becoming almost mesmerised. "Glad to have been of service."
"Oh, come now. I hardly think that was a chore, for you. I didn't exactly have to twist your arm to secure your participation, did I?"
Spike gives a casual shrug. "I like to do my bit for the cause. Where I still can."
"Of course. And a quite spectacular bit it is, too."
Spike drains the second shot and pours a third. It's very good tequila, and he doesn't intend paying the bill. Not with money, anyway. "So - you and the Watcher, back in the day. You really did, huh?"
Ethan smiles beatifically. "Oh yes, we most certainly did. In every way, shape and form imaginable."
Spike shakes his head slightly. "It's always the quiet ones."
Ethan's smile widens. "Oh, Rupert was rarely quiet. I thought you'd have noticed that."
Spike grins at the memory. "Does like to be, um, instructive, doesn't he?"
Ethan looks him up and down; calmly, unhurriedly. Like a man enjoying the view. "You know, we could have quite the future together. With my spell and your body-and vampire healing, I might add-we're the perfect team. I know a lot of clients who would pay very handsomely for the kind of experience I had last night."
Spike leans forward and matches his speculative stare. "Interesting proposition."
"You're very talented. It'd be a shame not to capitalise on that, don't you think?"
"Well, I've never been one to waste an opportunity."
"Splendid. A wise decision. Of course, I would need to be able to present a personal guarantee of quality to my clients. I do, after all, have a certain reputation to maintain." Ethan runs a finger idly along Spike's hand. "So really, that means I have no choice but to road test the merchandise myself. In the flesh, as it were."
Spike laughs. "You really are a lecherous old bastard, aren't you?"
Ethan inclines his head graciously. "Why, thank you. I try my best."
Spike grabs the bottle and slides out of the booth. He stands up, looking back at Ethan.
"Well? What are you waiting for?" He grins. "Let's get testing, partner."
-end-
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