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| Equity |
| The hollow, metallic clang of the spray can hitting Wesley's ornate antique desk brings no reaction from the subdued man sitting behind it. A full minute later there is the flip-click, and then pull, of Spike lighting a cigarette with his Zippo. It does no more than cause the seated man to sigh deeply and gently place a thumb in his mouth. The moist digit holds Spike captivated for a moment before Wesley lowers his hand to turn the page of an ancient spell book.
Impatient, Spike flicks a chipped fingernail at the empty spray can and send it spinning over the desk's smooth surface where it hits Wesley's book and spins off, landing with a bracing clang on the marble floor. Spike is momentarily startled and winces before he remembers why he's here. "Ten foot letters in the front lobby. 'I'm sorry' big as un-life. That what you wanted?" The forced edginess in his voice barely conceals the quiet desperation beneath. "Public apology for a public scandal?" "I asked for nothing of the sort of. If you'll excuse me, I've much work to do." "I could work you. Nice and proper-like…," Spike offers, trying another tack. It doesn't bode well for the vampire as Wesley slowly removes his eyeglasses and sets them on the edge of his book. "Do you really believe that that is all it will take to find yourself in my good graces once again?" "Never knew I was in your good graces to start with," Spike says truthfully and it brings a flicker of a smile to Wesley's mouth. It's brief but, to Spike's strung-out nerves, it's all the forgiveness he'll need. "He would have found out sooner or later, pet. Why does it matter so much--" "Because *I* wanted to be the one to tell him, in my own time. You'd no right revealing to Angel--" "And what about me? I'm just supposed to wait in your office until you're ready to take lunch? Stay at home and darn your knickers? Have my hair done with the other Wolfram & Hart trophy wives? Bugger that--" "That's not what I said and you know it. Just . . . just leave before I get upset again." "*Before* you get upset?" Wesely does not answer, only replaces his glasses and resumes turning pages in his book. Spike doesn't leave, but he does watch the progress of Wesley's thumb as it slides between the tall man's lips, then purposefully turns each page. "Sorry." "Excuse me, I don't think I quite heard you." Wesley's thumb doesn't stop. "I'm sorry I told Angel about this." "This?" "Us. Our . . ." At a loss, Spike pinches the cigarette butt between his lips and shuffles his feet uneasily. "Are you upset because it was wrong to tell him or are you upset because I'm angry?" "Both, I suppose." "Both, you suppose." Wesley takes off his glasses a second time, conceding with a flick that sends his them cluttering over the desk. Spike grins, dropping his cigarette butt into a potted ferns and slipping his coat off swiftly, then his shirt. It couldn't be a month, could it? Four weeks since the first fateful day. Invasive prowling through Wesley's closets while he made tea following a late-night battle. Finding the new bottle of cotton candy lube and realizing, with delight and horror, that as much as he'd love to use his new-found knowledge to embarrass Wesley, he wanted, *wanted*, Wesley more. Then later, using the whole bottle and half of another. Sheets and skin sweaty and sticky. Touching and licking and fucking in a way so much more intimate than the rough pleasures of the past. "I'll show you how sorry I am," he cajoles, struggling to step out of his heavy boots with some grace. "What is this?" "This? This is my glorious state of almost-nudity, mate. Care to give a fellow a shag or turn up the heat?" Spike shifts on his bare feet before making a concerted effort to stand still. He's so close, so close to being back in the glorious place he'd just barely gotten to know these last few weeks. Wesley simply gazes at him from the other side of his desk. "I meant, what is *this*?" He gestures to the general space between them. "A fabulous shag? A temporary diversion? This is . . . what do you want it to be?" Wesley regards him for a moment before saying, "I truthfully don't know. I suppose I was hoping to figure it out first before telling anyone else." "Is *that* why you were in a tizzy when I told Angel we were involved?" "Somehow I don't think telling my employer that I cannot come to the phone because your cock is in my mouth qualifies as simply 'involved'." "Was, though." Spike pouts. "Regardless, in the future I'd appreciate it if you discuss things of this nature with me first." "So now I'm supposed to get all communications 'approved' by you?" "That's not what I mean, Spike. You're being childish. Perhaps . . ." Wesley stops then, and for the first time Spike realizes how incredibly tired he looks. "I've done a great deal of thinking, Spike. And I've come to the conclusion that we may not be the two people best suited--" "Don't." "Spike--" "Wesley." Just the word is enough to draw a hard lump to the vampire's throat and he forces back a cough. "Wesley, please don't--I won't tell him anything else. Promise. Please don't . . ." And the panic pounding in his chest dwarfs the fury of the demon's disgust at being forced to beg--to *beg*--this man to take him. To keep him. Love him. Because there are more than craters and an ocean separating him from the person he once loved. And after standing in the dust of the miserable war called redemption that defines his life, he realized Wesley was there. Is there. Can't leave. Wesley's looking at him now, eyes shining and confused, hands clenched hard on his desk. The ex-Watcher looks so lost in some way, and Spike aches to reassure him but he knows he can't. He knows himself and knows his history. He can't promise Wesley much of anything, really. He's only getting to know this new life, life with a soul, and its boundaries are as mysterious to him as they must be to Wesley. But the thought of him leaving--of seeing Wesley day after day but not touching--burns. Spikes hands clench until he can feel the damp moisture on his palms that means his nails have cut bloody moons into his skin. "Wesley," he gasps, suddenly *sure* that this is goodbye and not quite sure why the thought should terrify him so much. "I can be good. I *will* be good. You don't have to--" "Spike." Wesley's up and around the desk. "Stop. You don't have to . . ." He sighs heavily, breath tickling Spikes hardening nipples. "Don't you think you'd be happier with someone else? Someone more... less like me?" He looks so tired and vulnerable. The shadows under his eyes make him look older. Worn. Spike loves them. Somehow he looks as old as Spike feels. There's a certain equity in that sort of relationship, he decides. "Touch me, Wesley," he whispers. The words barely leave his lips before Wesley is before him, so close he can feel the heat of his body. The taller man doesn't move closer, just drops his head slowly onto Spike's shoulders in an oddly childlike way. Spike's head drops as well, and his arms slip around Wesley's waist, drawing in a deep breath of tea scent and pine soap. Breathing in Wesley. "Need you, Watcher. Don't leave me. Ever," he wants to whisper. Might have said it out loud, because Wesley's arms slide around him and tighten. His lips caress the vampire's neck. "Are you sure you want . . ." Wesley seems too nervous to finish. Spike turns his head, kisses hard at the wide mouth he's growing to love until Wesley breaks away. "I'm weak. Painfully stupid at times. Hopelessly--" His mouth is silenced again. "Don't know which one of us is the bigger tosser," Spike finally admits and Wesley chuckles, his lips skating over pale cheeks. "You know," Wesley says suddenly, "one of us is nearly naked and it's not me." His lecherous grin brings a matching one to the vampire's face. Wesley slides down to his knees. Long bookish fingers work the button-fly black jeans and swiftly descend over lean hipbones. Then Wesley stops, leaning in to rest a rough cheek on Spike's thigh. "Already wear you out?" His words are spoken lightly, but there's anxiety in Spike's voice. "Not at all." Wesley sits back and there's something new in his eyes, some element that's become almost foreign to Spike's understanding. Relief. "Do you think we'll have many more bouts like this?" Wesley asks as his lips move to close over Spike's cock, causing the vampire to groan. "Somehow I doubt we'll be able to go long without a row. But don't worry, pet. You can't discount the luxury of make-up sex." The End |