The Ballad of Spike and Angel - Beetle
The Ballad of Spike and Angel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Mine, only in the sense that I don’t actually own them or make any money off them.
Feedback: Send it to me or Joss, same diff.
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All human AU.
Summary: Four years before the events of The True Meaning of Family.
Author's Site: The Long Island Bug.
[Prologue | Chapter One]
Prologue
“William?”
“Hmm?”
William looks up from the inventory and blinks. Rupert smiles at him.
“It’s almost six. Go home, get freshened up for dinner.”
William
suppresses a smile and goes back to the long columns of numbers. “Is
Her Majesty coming over, again, or just one of the minor nobility?”
“Pillock.”
William grins at the fond exasperation in his father’s voice. “You know
very well the Wyndham-Pryces are joining us for dinner.”
“Good Lord, dad! Don’t tell me you’ve got those poor, dear people in on your little plan!”
“And what plan would that be?” Rupert busies himself with shelving a few books.
“Your nefarious plan to - to marry me off to Wyndham-Pryce, the younger!”
“Piffle.”
William
rolls his eyes. “Don’t piffle me. And don’t think your little scheme is
going to work, either. I quite enjoy being a bachelor. I’m not going to
get tied down - and certainly not this young.” Though he had, at one
point, been willing to tie himself down forever, and at an even younger
age.
To say that had ended disastrously was to understate by several large degrees of magnitude.
“Be
that as it may, Ethan and Mrs. McArdle went to some trouble to arrange
this little get together and they would appreciate it if you at least
ran a comb through that bird’s nest you call hair.”
“‘S not a bird’s nest!” William runs a hand through his wavy, overlong hair. “I prefer to think of it as Byronic.”
Rupert’s
amused snort drifts out from amongst the stacks. William smiles and
closes the ledger. Wouldn’t do to look less than his best for the
Wyndham-Pryces.
*
William sits
quietly throughout dinner, listening to his father talk shop with Mr.
Wyndham-Pryce while Ethan charmed Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce. Every once in
awhile, Wyndham-Pryce, the younger, would shoot him an amused and
heated glance that William would return with a smile that was half leer.
He doubts these glances and half-leers escape Rupert’s notice and he knows they don’t escape Ethan and Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce’s.
As
coffee is being served in the den, Wyndham-Pryce, the younger excuses
himself, citing an early workday as an excuse. Mr. Wyndham-Price and
Rupert were too chummy to really notice and though Mrs. Wyndham-Price
made nominal protestations, her son beat a hasty exit with one curious,
baby-blue glance at William, who affected polite nonchalance.
After
another half-hour of long-winded stories and idle gossip, William says
his good nights and makes his way up to his room. It’s been a long
night. Too long by half.
When he opens his bedroom door, a lazy drawl drifts out.
“Took you long enough.”
William
smiles, shutting the door. His bedside lamp clicks on and a very
relaxed, very naked Wyndham-Price, the younger, watches him with
smoldering blue eyes.
“You take too many chances, Wes.”
“And
you take too few, Will. Now, why are you over there and still dressed
when you could be over here, naked and getting fucked into your
mattress?” The you git isn’t said aloud, but heavily implied.
William grins.
*
“You should come to New York with me.”
William sighs and snuggles into Wesley’s side, runs a finger down Wesley’s chest. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Perfectly so.”
“Wesley,
I thought we agreed there’d be none of that. It’d make our parents
entirely too pleased with us,” William murmurs, looking up at Wesley.
For once, the amused glint is gone and Wesley’s blue eyes are utterly
serious. It rather unnerves William.
“What?”
“We’ve been sneaking around for how long, now?”
“I don’t know, six months or so. . . .” William blushes. He hasn’t been keeping track at all.
“It’ll be one year in December.”
“That’s
so?” William asks, leaning over Wesley to rifle through his nighttable.
He pushes aside the condoms they don’t even bother with anymore and
goes straight for the cigarettes.
“Yes, that’s so.”
“Well, then -” William bats his eyes and nibbles Wesley’s lower lip before kissing him. “Happy anniversary, darling!”
“Be
serious, for once,” Wesley murmurs between kisses, pulling William
closer. “And don’t start on those things, you know I abhor them.”
“Wretched habit, these. Did you know lung cancer killed John Wayne?”
“William -”
“Wesley,
just don’t, please? We agreed from - a year ago, I suppose, that
there’s nothing serious about us! And I’ll bloody-well smoke in here if
I want, ‘s my room.” William gets up. “Where’d I leave m’ lighter?”
“In the right inner pocket of your dinner jacket.”
“Ta,
pet.” That first, sweet lungful of menthol-flavored death is almost
enough to drive away the realization that he and Wes sound like his
Ethan and Rupert.
“Things can change in the course of a year, William.”
“Can they, now?” Through the haze of blue-grey smoke, Wesley’s eyes seem to glow.
“You can’t tell me that the two of us, together like this feels wrong.”
William leers and saunters over to the bed, never breaking eye-contact. “Feels like I’ll be walkin’ funny for the next three days, actually. But if that’s wrong, baby, I don’t wanna be right.”
The
laugh that Wesley’s trying to hold in bubbles out when William tips him
a broad stage-wink. “Dear God, you’re ridiculous, sometimes.”
William
sticks his tongue out and gets into bed, dropping his lighter on the
nighttable. When he stubs out the half-smoked cigarette, Wesley pulls
him close, one hand on his arse, the other at the small of his back.
Wesley’s cock is hard against William’s thigh.
“Tell me this doesn’t feel right to you, William.” Blue gazes into blue expectantly.
“I - it doesn’t feel wrong.” It never has. Wesley’s fantastic in bed and pleasant to talk with or simply be with.
“Then
come to New York with me. I’m sure Rupert and Ethan will be able to
hire a bookkeeper and you can be a kept man in the US. My kept man. . . .” soft, teasing, open-mouthed kisses and those blue eyes never leave his.
Wesley doesn’t feel wrong. He feels - safe and comfortable.
Finally,
William nods, not trusting his voice. When Wesley smiles and caresses
his face, William inclines his head and bites his thumb gently, still
not breaking eye contact. Wesley’s hands, fine and surprisingly strong,
settle on his hips.
“Ride me.”
*
“Well. You’re up early.”
“Didn’t
go to sleep, did I?” William looks up from his cup of coffee to regard
Ethan. The look of amused curiosity he receives is not at all
unexpected. Both Ethan and Giles have been giving him variations on
that same Look for nearly a year.
“I trust you enjoyed last night?” Ethan himself a cup of coffee and delicately sips, regarding William through the steam.
“It was all a bit - stiff-upper-lip for me, but yes, I had fun.” William clears his throat.
“Yes. . . the Wyndham-Pryces have their. . . charms, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”
The fond smile in Ethan’s voice is disturbingly self-satisfied.
“They
certainly do.” Ethan’s not the only one sounding self-satisfied.
William is still pleasantly sore in some rather hard-to-reach places.
“Really,
you’ve been sneaking him in and out of here for almost a year. Wesley’s
parents and your father think the two of you make a well-matched
couple. Why else do you think they keep throwing you two together?”
William rolls his eyes. “Dad just wants someone who’s decent and kind to look after me, take care of me.”
“Is he wrong to?”
“Alright, assuming that I’m too fragile to take care of myself, who says Wesley’s the one I’d want to do so?”
“It
wasn’t Trevor Conroy, Eliza Cooke, Kit Bradley, Vijay Seth - all the
way back to the charming Dr. Pennington. Why not Wesley? He’s so -
likeable and loyal. And corruptible.”
Like your father, hangs unspoken but heavily in the air. William makes a face. “You would consider corruptibility a plus. And you must know those others were - flings. Convenience.”
“Even
the good Doctor?” Ethan’s dark eyes are inscrutable. As always. Will
blushes, but resists the urge to look down. He’s not a child anymore,
not so easily intimidated.
“No, Penn was. . . Penn was Penn. In a class all his own.”
“Your father and I never could figure out why you left him.” Ethan’s voice is noticeably less caustic than usual.
It’s
a rare invitation from Ethan for soul-bearing. Oddly enough, when Ethan
is in a mood to listen without snarking, William feels obliged to share.
“Call it a - difference in philosophies.”
One graceful eyebrow lifts in question. William smiles wryly.
“Let’s
just say Penn had no problem hitting me and I had a big problem with
being hit.” William shrugs. “I left before anything really bad
happened. Nearly let love kill me once. Couldn’t go through that again.”
Ethan blinks thoughtfully, but not before William sees something dark and cold shift in those glittering eyes.
This isn’t the first time William has noticed the darkness in Ethan’s dark eyes, thankfully it’s never been directed at him.
William hopes it never is.
“Anyway,
it’s not them, not any of them. Not Penn, not Wesley Windmill-Ponce -”
an amused snort from Ethan. “Not even Drusilla. . . it’s me, it’s here.
. . I don’t belong here, not anymore. Every day is the same thing, the
same people, the same ghosts and -” William gropes for the words that’d
been so clear in his mind just minutes before, his hands closing into
fists. “The same me. I feel like a known quantity, immutable.
Stuck. As if I’ll always be sad, fragile, unstable William. ‘Oh, the
poor boy just isn’t wrapped too tightly, is he?’ Bollocks to that. I
need to be someone different, somewhere different.”
William unclenches his fists and lays his hands flat on the table.
“I take it you’ll be leaving with Wesley when he goes to New York, then?”
Rupert’s
voice from the doorway startles them both. His slightly squinty eyes
are kind and sad in the faint, grey light of dawn.
“Yes.” William smiles shyly. “I - he asked me last night and I’ve said yes.”
“Finally.”
Rupert walks over to the stove, giving Ethan a good-morning kiss and
pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have
to chase after him with a shotgun, or something equally vulgar. The
boy’s been dithering about asking you to leave with him for months.”
William’s eyes dart between his father and Ethan suspiciously. “Obviously we’ve been less discreet than I thought we were, or. . . how long has he been in cahoots with you two cabbalists?”
Rupert and Ethan share a glance.
“Er,
well, he didn’t ask our permission to ask you to go to New York with
him till last night,” Rupert offers with a sheepish grin. Ethan’s grin
is, as always, self-satisfied and slightly mocking. William sighs,
feeling very put-upon.
“I am a big boy, now. I can take
care of my own life, my own relationships - myself. If the two of you
weren’t hovering over me like vampire bats, Wesley could have just asked me
and had done with it! He doesn’t need your permission, you know?”
William glares. “I suppose he thought he was being charmingly
old-fashioned?”
“Well, he -” Rupert starts.
“He’s just
playing at being an alpha-male and it’s bloody ridiculous!” William
exclaims. Giles and Ethan exchange another glance.
“I take it that means you won’t be going to New York, after all?” Rupert doesn’t sound altogether unhappy about that. William almost hates to disappoint him.
“Of course
I’m still going! Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna take the piss with Mr.
Chivalry for being such a caveman of a git! Where’s the cordless?”
William’s up and snatching the aforementioned phone from it’s cradle.
He strides out of the kitchen already dialing. In the blessed silence
that falls whenever William leaves a room, Rupert sighs, pulling Ethan
into his arms.
“I can’t believe we won’t ever hear him ranting at us across the breakfast table again,” Rupert whispers forlornly.
“Poor Ripper. . . not never
again. I’m sure he’ll visit often. And if it’s any consolation, I’m
fairly sure he inherited his insanely contrary nature from my side of
the family,” Ethan smiles and leans back in Rupert’s arms contentedly.
Six Months Later
“Lemme ‘lone. . . said no. . . .”
The evening isn’t going at all well.
Despite
it’s auspicious beginnings, everything’s gone thoroughly pear-shaped.
William is, dizzy, leaden-limbed and about to be raped against an alley
wall. Go figure.
The alley is fuzzy and shiny and spinn-y.
William’s body is driftwood. It doesn’t listen to him and neither does
his erstwhile date.
“Please, stop -” talking around his own
tongue is like trying to talk around a swatch of carpet. Screaming is
probably out of the question.
No. . . the evening isn’t going well at all.
~~~
Chapter One
“Wes?”
Wesley doesn’t look open his eyes, doesn’t even sigh. “Yes, William?”
The shuffling/rustling of William turning over to regard Wes with those crystalline eyes.
“At least we got to touch a Van Gogh. That’s something, isn’t it? How many people in your set can say that, love?”
For
a moment, the incredible headache Wesley’s had all evening reaches a
painful apex. He opens his eyes and opens his mouth, quite certain that
screams unbecoming and unusual for a grown man shall come tumbling out
in such profusion and volume, stopping them would be impossible.
What comes out is a snort. Followed by a snicker, several chuckles, then an actual laugh that feels never-ending and wonderful.
“You are bloody insane, William.” This, choked out between near-breathless laughs.
“Not like the security guards were paying attention, eh? Well, they weren’t till you started screeching ‘William! For God’s sake! Don’t touch the Van Gogh!’
like a bloody girl and jostled the damn thing trying to snatch my hand
away.” William snuggled into Wesley’s side with a sigh. “The lights and
sirens were a complete overreaction, of course. Never seen a
pyrotechnics show like that in my life. I’m surprised we didn’t wind up
in a - federal prison, or wherever they put foreigners who molest
priceless works of art.”
“Yes, I’d say we’re damn lucky.” He tries to scold but the tapering chuckles nix that plan handily.
“Bloody
right, we are.” And suddenly, William’s sharp, beautiful face is above
his own, silvery-pale in the bright moonlight flooding their bedroom.
“Do try and be a little more subtle next time, pet. Something along the
lines of - less shouting, more not-shouting, yeah?”
“Next time?”
Wesley’s sure his face cannot possibly look as shocked and disbelieving as he feels.
For a moment, he can do nothing but wonder at the changes in his life
over the past fourteen months, changes that led to William and here
and the warm, melty feelings running through his body at his lover’s
ridiculous and dangerous antics. Wonders when he’d become so unguarded,
so -
Light. . . that’s how I feel when I’m with him. Light and fun and silly and - angry, sometimes, exasperated almost always but - he makes me feel alive and vital and I love him.
The laughter has entirely stopped and William is beginning to look worried, now.
“Wesley? Love?” One warm hand comes up to caress Wesley’s face in gentle concern and those eyes are filled with such insecurity and remorse. “Wes, I’m sorry. I was stupid, I shouldn’t
have touched the painting. I was being a git just because I shouldn’t
and I could. I know you put up with a lot of stress from your work, but
you shouldn’t have to put up with it in your free time. I’m sorry,
really I am, darling, dunno what got into me -”
“William?”
“Yeah?”
You are trouble, William, and nothing but. . . .
Fortunately, I love trouble.
“Do
shut up before I toss you out of bed,” Wesley says in his most politely
bored tone. But the smile on his face says more and rather loudly.
Watching the insecurity and fear on William’s face dissolve into shock,
disbelief and fondness, Wesley feels something within him settle for
the first time since they arrived in New York City.
“You right bastard.” William’s lips twitch with barely repressed laughter.
Then they’re both laughing and rolling around, mock-tussling. Then William lets Wesley pin him and the game changes entirely.
*
In
the morning, Wesley stands in the kitchen of his new apartment,
enjoying the nearly unobstructed view of his adopted city. A grand
sight, but not as welcome as the backs of his own eyelids.
One of these days, William will have to teach me the art of sleeping in and then we shall see. . . . he thinks wryly. Despite the late night last night, he still can’t quell the biological impulse to be awake by seven a.m.
Rubbing
his eyes, he turns away from the breathtaking new skyline and opens the
refrigerator. A moment’s consideration and he’s taking out a carton of
orange juice, smiling as he drinks straight from the carton. It’s a
habit his parents and William have tried to break him of.
I imagine orange juice on-the-sly always tastes better.
He’s
put back the orange juice and is trying to choose between frozen
blueberry waffles or frozen french toast for breakfast when the phone
rings, startling him. It’s an annoying ring that had immediately set
William’s teeth on edge when he first heard it. Wesley reminds himself
to change it before Will wakes up.
“Wyndham-Pryce.”
“Hello, Wesley, how are you?”
“Rupert! Hello!” Wesley smiles and leans against the refrigerator, breakfast forgotten. “We're wonderful, how are you?”
“Quite well. Adjusting to daily life without William.”
“In
other words, it’s quiet?” Wesley’s laughing, now, scratching his chest.
He also reminds himself to remember to clean up before he falls asleep.
William’s insistent snuggling, though hard to pry one’s self away from,
is necessary unless one wants to wake up itching because of dried -
“Abysmally
quiet. None of us have really figured out what to do with ourselves.
Poor Mrs. McArdle was afraid we were going to sack her and Ethan’s -
gone utterly insane.”
“Mm, yes. And what horribly exotic location is he trying to drag you off to?”
A long-suffering sigh. “Brazil. For Carnaval.”
“You’ll have a wonderful time,” Wesley assures him. A little too well for Rupert’s taste, it seems.
“I trust you’re not speaking from recent experience.” A tinge of disapproval.
“Certainly
not,” Wesley murmurs, wondering if last year is really considered
“recent”. Or if it matters that William was the one who’d talked him
into going.
“Well.” Rupert clears his throat. “Marvelous. I
suppose William’s still abed? Never gets up before noon if he doesn’t
have to.”
“So I’ve noticed. Of course, he has every reason to sleep in, today. Yesterday, he was caught mauling a Van Gogh.”
“Oh, dear. It was The Starry Night, wasn’t it? The painting he, er, mauled?”
“Why - yes. That’s astonishing! However did you guess?”
“Took
a family holiday in New York when William was eight. We, too, went to
the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Let’s just say that William has always
expressed his - appreciation of Van Gogh’s work. . . please tell me he
controlled himself around the Medieval Weaponry section?”
“We
were politely asked to leave before we had a chance to tour that
particular wing.” Though it’s not his favorite artistic movement,
Wesley is suddenly grateful for Will’s impulsive detour into
post-Impressionism.
“Splendid. I trust there was no - incident worthy of making the international press.”
“God, I hope not. Though I haven’t checked the NY Times, yet. Or CNN.”
Rupert makes a sound somewhere between a protracted groan and a protracted sigh.
“Well. Other than trying to avoid prison, what have you two been up to? Has he been getting out, looking for work? Have you been practicing?”
Wesley glances at the bowl of fruit sitting on the kitchen table. With a tiny bit of concentration. . . .
“As
often as I can, which isn’t as often as I’d like, but until I get more
settled and put more wards in place it can’t be helped.” He frowns and
tracks the rate of motion as the apple slowly, steadily rises up and
out of the bowl. “And I’ve been so busy until yesterday, I haven’t even
stopped to ask William how he’s been filling his days. Such a loving
partner I am.”
“Nonsense. Despite his - child-like spontaneity, William is a grown man. He no doubt understands the move to New York hasn't been for mere sight-seeing and fun.”
“Yes,
but I just - feel so terrible lying to him,” Wesley admits, letting the
apple drop. He focuses on a small cluster of grapes. Separating four of
them from the bunch takes finer control than he’s ever had till very
recently.
Perhaps I should have some fruit and tea for breakfast.
“It’s not lying, exactly. He thinks you deal in antiquities, and you do.” There’s a loud hiss and their connection fades.
In
the space of a breath, Rupert’s banished the static, a handy little
trick that Wesley has yet to master, but silently promises himself he
will.
“Antique spellbooks, magical items and enchanted objects. . . a rather large omission, wouldn’t you say?”
The
grapes are rotating and revolving around each other, now, like small
planets, all at different rates of accelerations. Not as impressive as
banishing static with one’s mind, but definitely an improvement of his
control.
“It can’t be helped, Wesley and you know that.”
Of course Wesley knows that. Everyone, it seems, knows the extent of William’s limitations except William.
“I’ve always envied that Ethan could talk with you about his sorcery. It seems to me that’s the ideal situation.”
“Ideals
don’t exist in a practical world.” Rupert’s tone is short and
forbidding. “I don’t suppose William ever mentions his mother.”
This is a statement, not a question.
“Should
he be mentioning her? He almost never speaks of his childhood. Getting
him to open up about any part of his life before we met is. . .
difficult, at best.” Something that bothers Wesley to no end, but the
grapes don’t even falter.
“Some of William’s life before you met
him was - tragic. The loss of his mother is just one incident in a
string of misfortunes. In any event, Ethan and I feel it would be
irresponsible to trouble him with - intangibles.”
If he could survive Quentin Travers’s pretty, loon of a daughter, I don’t think there’s much William couldn’t handle,
Wesley thinks. But he can’t say it. It’s not his place to gainsay
Rupert Giles or Ethan Rayne. If anyone would know what William can
handle, it would be his parents.
“And he’s never shown any innate talent or interest in the Craft or sorcery?” Wesley’s always found this difficult to believe. How could Rupert Giles’s son have no knowledge, no inkling of the worlds beneath the world?
“None. And that’s the way it must stay, Wesley.” Rupert says with chilling finality.
“Yes.
Of course. It’s just that sometimes I want to tell him - share with him
all the wonder and beauty he’s missing! I want to share so much - and I can’t! It’s very frustrating and it hurts.”
The grapes drift slowly down to the bowl, one at a time; an impressive
feat, considering Wesley’s less-than-sanguine state of mind.
“I
understand, truly, I do.” Rupert's voice is sympathetic, but unmoved.
“But William’s had such a hard time of things - we can’t be sure how
well he’d bear up under such knowledge.”
“He’s stronger than you think. Stronger than I am.”
“That's something neither Ethan nor I care to see tested.”
It seemed that that was the end of that.
“What if he finds out on his own? This is New York City. You can’t swing a yardstick without hitting a sorcerer or incantatrix or demon - this city is crawling with demons!”
“Yes, as I recall.”
“I’d imagine that sooner or later, considering the nature of my business and the nature of this city, he’ll eventually see something that’ll -”
Wesley squeaks as smooth, warm arms snake around his waist and a face presses into his back.
“It’s
Sunday morning, love, and I’m lonely. Come back to bed.” William’s
rumbley, rough, early-morning voice energizes Wesley and as always,
makes him hyper-aware of every inch of his skin. For a moment he
wonders if William heard - or saw -
But he realizes that if William saw the apparent natural order being upset in his kitchen, on a Sunday morning, no less, the son of a bitch! would be heard the world over.
“Is that William?” The anxious hope in Rupert’s voice makes Wesley miss his own father in sudden, sharp pangs.
“Er,
yes,” he manages as William slides a hand down his tracksuit pants,
instantly reviving Wesley’s morning wood. His mind helpfully supplies
him with a mental picture of his lover’s favorite housewear: a pair of
socks and nothing else. “Uh, shall I p-put him on?”
William makes a petulant no-sound probably isn’t loud enough for Rupert to hear, then he’s licking, kissing and nibbling Wesley’s back.
Parental exasperation from across the Pond. “I doubt he’s awake enough for a civilized conversation.”
I wouldn’t say that. . . .
“‘S it dad or stepmum?” Will grumbles. Wesley covers the mouthpiece. “Rupert.”
“Buggerfuck.”
William suddenly snatches the phone away from Wesley’s ear. “‘Lo, dad.
. . yes, we’re settling in just fine. . . yes, the apartment was
already furnished, as advertised. . . .” the hand in Wesley’s pants
slows momentarily, then William’s finger is tracing the letters of a
word down the length of Wesley’s cock.
W - I - L is all Wesley can follow before he shudders and bows his head, moaning softly from the cruel, feather-light touches.
This is so wrong. . . this is so wrong, the prissy voice of Wesley’s conscience whines as William grips him possessively. And for so very many reasons.
The irresistible instinct to thrust is ever-so-much stronger than a piddling conscience.
“No,
I haven’t. . . no, I don’t intend to be a kept man, dad!” A
squeeze-pull so hard it’s only barely on the pleasure-side of painful
and Wesley nearly comes. Any accidental rhythm his thrusts may have
gained is long gone.
“Well, dad, I expect I’ll repay Wesley’s
generosity and patience with sex. Lots of mind-blowing, cripplingly
strange sex. And in as many different positions as we can think of. . .
well, yes, I understood that it was a rhetorical question. . . yes,
he’s standing right here. Lord, you should see the faces he making.”
William’s knowing purr tickles Wesley’s neck. It’s either laugh or
come, so he laughs, earning a wicked tug on his foreskin that
practically sends him over the edge.
“Yes, he is a saint
for putting up with my shenanigans.” Wesley can’t see his lover, but he
can sense the sarcastic eyeroll. “No, I’m not being sarcastic, dad. No
more than usual, anyway. . . .
“We’ve only been here for ten days, dad, and we’re both still trying to get our bearings, but yes, I am looking for a job - no, dear God in heaven, no. Not in a rare books shop - I didn’t move to a whole different country just so I could be a bookkeeper again!”
“No,
there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the honorable, ages-old
profession of bookkeeping. No. No - don’t put Ethan on, I can’t talk
long - hello, wicked stepmum, how are you. . .? Yes, New York is
a perfect fit. There’s all sorts of lovely fun waiting to be had.”
Wesley is pulled back against William just in time for the naughty
thrusting and grinding. He desperately wishes for skin to skin contact.
Tracksuit pants are evil and made of cursedly thick material.
“Yes, such
fun to be had. . . live music venues and the like. Maybe I’ll join a
band - yes, I know that’s not quite the kind of career dad meant. . .
yeah.” William laughs heartily, still thrusting against Wesley.
Tracksuit pants are definitely evil. So is William.
For all that he grumbles about how interfering Ethan is, Wesley's last, functioning brain cell notes. William is obviously fond of the man. I’m quite sure the feeling is reciprocated.
I’m also quite sure I shouldn’t be thinking of William’s - stepmum, just now.
“Listen,
stepmum, I’ll have to call you later. I’ve got a Wyndham-Pryce, here,
that needs some intensive de-stressing, if you follow me - yes, I know
I’m as subtle as a freight train. I’ll call you back later today,
around five p.m. GMT. Alright. Yeah, poor thing, he’s trembling on the
edge - “
Wesley knows with embarrassing certainty that he’s the “him” they’re discussing.
“Okay. Yes, of course. ‘Kay, later on, then. Bye.”
“Ethan
says I should stop torturing you, love.” Soft, warm lips gently brush
against Wesley’s ear and he lays his head back on William’s shoulder so
he can look into those mesmeric eyes. The smile he receives is
mercilessly wicked.
“But you love it when I torture you, isn’t that right?”
“Will -” It’s a plea and a warning.
“Oh, alright, I’ll do as stepmum says, just this once.” William sighs, giving Wesley a peck on the lips.
There’s
a thud that Wesley fleetingly hopes is the cordless phone hitting the
kitchen table and not the floor. Then the tracksuit pants are eased
down Wesley’s hips in seconds that last exactly half an eternity apiece.
“Now, what have we here?” That drawl is intolerable. Insufferable. In- “Is all this because of me? You are a keeper, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce.”
“Bastard.” Wesley grits out.
“Language, pet. Language.” William’s grin turns into a leer.
“Evil.” Even more so than the damn pants.
“Now,
love! Come for me!” The whispered urgency plus the intensity of
William’s ice-blue gaze and Wesley’s closing his eyes as he
re-christens their kitchen floor.
He’s still trying to catch his breath as William leans back against the counter, taking a pliant, loose-limbed Wesley with him.
“Good
morning, love.” Kisses all over Wesley’s shoulders and neck and wet
fingers trailing over his chest and abdomen. William’s still hard,
still rocking against Wesley.
“It most certainly is.”
“Missed you while you were gone.”
“You were still asleep.” A surprisingly cogent answer from such a pleasantly lethargic brain.
“You think I don’t wake up when you wake up?”
“Really?” Such a silly thing shouldn’t please Wesley quite so much, but it does. He blames the endorphins.
“‘Course I do, you slow git.”
“Well, I was going to throw something in the microwave or maybe have some fruit for breakfast, but -”
Smiling,
Wesley turns his limp, relaxed body to face William. The anxious,
intense expression he finds quells any and all humorous responses and
brings him back to Earth immediately.
“What is it?”
William’s smile is tiny and fake. “Just - feel a little drained, is all.”
“Come
back to bed, then. You lie back and rest and I’ll take care of this.”
William’s eyes dilate as Wesley strokes his erection. Then he shakes
his head, pulling out of Wesley’s arms. But before he turns away,
Wesley can see that unsettled expression has returned.
If Wesley didn’t know better, he’d swear it was fear.
“No, you make some breakfast, I know you’re starving. I’m gonna have a quick shower then go get the Sunday paper.”
For
a moment, Wesley is quite certain William is joking. And that is the
exact second William chooses to exit the kitchen without a coy look
backwards and an invitation for Wesley join him.
“I love it when
you’re moody and insulting, darling. Do have fun in shower, wanking off
by yourself.” Wesley sighs, pulling up his pants.
A few minutes later he’s cleaning up the re-christened floor and trying, yet again, to decide what he’ll have for breakfast.
*
William leans against the bathroom door, eyes tightly shut.
On the backs of his eyelids, the same few seconds of insanity repeats itself, ad infinitum:
He
peered into the kitchen, getting a lovely view of Wesley’s slim,
muscular body limned in light and clad in nothing but over-large pants
that sagged off his hips.
William was already grinning and hard and about to startle Wesley into a coronary episode. He really hadn’t learned anything from the fiasco at The Met, the previous day. Want, take, have is his personal philosophy, and at that moment in time, said philosophy was aimed at his sexy and unaware boyfriend.
Wesley was talking with someone on the phone, though who would ring them up this early on a Sunday -
William tuned into Wesley’s half of the conversation:
“.
. . been so busy until yesterday, I haven’t even stopped to ask William
how he’s been filling his days. Such a loving partner I am. . . .”
Wesley was either talking with William’s parents or his own, which explained the earliness of the call, but -
Just then a strange motion above the kitchen table caught his eye. . . .
Rising
out of the fruit bowl to hover in the air, then swooping in graceful,
even, figure-eight patterns, was a large MacKintosh. The sun winked
merrily on it’s flawless surface -
- and watching it with only passing interest was Wesley, who suddenly made an abortive gesture with his right hand. The apple dropped gently back into the fruit bowl.
Several green grapes immediately snapped free of the bunch and started revolving around each other.
William backed out of the archway and around the corner, terrified.
Trying to calm himself enough to go into the kitchen and act normal, act like he wasn’t going crazy again,
was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. But it’d paid off,
hadn’t it? Everything had been normal, no flying apples or dancing
grapes. Just his sweet, kind Wesley chatting on the phone.
That was reality, not levitating fruit.
“I didn’t see that. Any of it. The sun was in my eyes and the move has been very stressful for us both. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I am
prone to seeing things - “ William is babbling aloud, automatically
grabbing his shampoo and conditioner and stepping into the shower. He
turns the spigot on, full blast, not even flinching when frigid water
hits his already wilting erection.
In the first months after his
suicide attempt - after the six week coma he'd put himself in - William
had seen lots of things that weren’t really there. Among them was his
long-absent mother and a host of bogeymen, spooks and specters. And
Drusilla, of course. Drusilla, most of all.
Nearly three years on and it seems he's seeing things again.
Well, I hid it once, despite dad and Ethan's over-protective hovering. I can hide it again, till I fix myself.
Again.
“Not
gonna be crazy. Not anymore,” he swears between shivers and chatters.
Once upon a time, this mantra had been the only thing standing between
William and the madness.
“Not anymore. . . not anymore. . . .”
William thinks it’s a shame some things never change.
Four Months Later
Once
he’s been dragged beyond the reach of the streetlights, he’s hauled
around to face his “date”, who’s nothing but a faint gleam of big,
white teeth and odd yellow eyes.
“Lemme ‘lone. . . said no. . . .” comes out sluggish and garbled, but the feeling behind them is no doubt clear.
The
only reply Will receives is a flash of those spooky eyes and a punch to
jaw that feels like a ton of bricks. The blow knocks some survival
instincts into him. He manages a slow and clumsy swing on the
would-be-rapist, only to fall forward into laughing boy’s arms. He’s
held close and crushingly tight.
“I can fuck you now -” Will
tries to shudder away from icy fingers gently stroking his neck. “ -or
I can fuck you after you’re unconscious, but I’m gonna fuck
you.” Will’s ears ring as he’s spun around and slammed face first into
the wall. A cold, vice-like hand closes around his neck and squeezes so
tight, fireworks burst and fade in Will’s useless vision.
“Why. . . ?” The best Will can do is a strangled whisper, but his attacker hears him quite well.
“Well,
I reckon it's just more fun this way. Least for me, anyways.” The
chuckles sound like growls. Will’s drugged/shocked brain starts putting
together clues - cold breath, amazingly strong, glowing yellow eyes,
abnormally large teeth - and comes up with a picture that can’t
possibly be right -
The only thing keeping him from blacking out is fear of waking up in a hell worse than the one he’s currently in.
“Not real. . . no, no, not crazy. . . not anymore. Can’t make
me crazy.” Extreme fear momentarily clears away the cobwebs and
sharpens his tongue. Will’s trying to melt into the clammy, slimy
bricks, pull away from the cold, insistent hardness pressing against
him. His own slurred and futile nos are the only things he can hear apart from his attacker’s low growls. Dry, cool breaths puff in his ear.
“Just gimme what I want and no harm’ll come to you. I swear.”
The hand limiting his air supply tends to negate that promise.
He
starts to sag down the wall and his attacker laughs, holding him up by
the neck easily. Not much taller than Will, but so disproportionately
strong. A sudden yank and Will’s jeans have been ripped completely off.
They still managed to put up more of a fight than their owner is
currently capable of.
“No underwear? See, I knew there
was a reason I picked you, Will.” the soft growl ghosts past Will’s ear
like sinister smoke and the world suddenly lurches, grows even darker.
The chuckles and taunts seem to recede into the distance, like a
choppy, long distance phone call.
And there’s another faint
sound; a zipper. . . which is followed by something cold and hard
against the burning-hot skin of Will’s hip. Which, in turn, is followed
by somethings pointy and sharp pressing against his throat.
“Oh, God.” Will sobs, because in that moment everything slows, becomes horrifyingly clear. He’s going to die. He’s going to die in this alley, and the thing that’s about to rape and murder him is a -
“Vampire. . . .”
“Smile when ya say that, pard,” he - it
- growls or laughs. The possibility of a difference between the two
sounds is lost on Will. His entire universe is the sense of wrongness at his back and about to force it’s way in.
TBC