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Chance Encounter
by WesleysGirl
Rating: PG-13
Spike/Wesley
Written for the first 1,000 word Fic challenge at Peaches
Won't Be Happy.
The little shop is seedy and it smells bad and Wesley has to take a deep
breath of outside air before he can force himself over the threshold and
into the shop proper. The door closes behind him with a little *tinkle*
of the once-brass, now-tarnish bell just above it, and a *click* of the
latch that sounds not unlike the hammer of a gun being cocked. Wesley
thinks to himself that this was a very, very bad idea.
And then he reminds himself that Angel comes here all the time, although
not often during these specific hours. He doesn't let himself think that
Angel is a vampire, that Angel is nearly invulnerable to most things
that could hurt or kill a human. Which he himself is.
Shaking off the general sense of doom, Wesley walks down the dimly-lit
aisle to the back counter. The shop is dead quiet. One almost wouldn't
know that anyone else was there. But the front door was unlocked, and
Angel told Wesley that the shop is always open. Because there are
always things that demons and vampires need, and it's not as if one can
stop at the local convenience store for a quick pint or a half-dozen Chokenelah
worms.
There's another small bell on the countertop. It looks as if someone has
sneezed over it. Wesley looks at it with distaste, takes a handkerchief
from his pocket, lays said handkerchief over the bell, and rings it twice.
The sound is somewhat muffled but still strangely loud in the quiet shop.
Abruptly, someone appears at Wesley's elbow, on his own side of the counter.
The man is so silent that if it hadn't been for the slight change in the
light Wesley might not have known he was there at all. Wesley turns to
look at him, backing up a step to put some distance between them.
Black boots that look like they've seen better days -- better years.
Black jeans, tight in places that make Wesley blush with the memory of
his own ill-fitting leather trousers. Long black duster that reminds him
of Angel's, layered over some shirts that may have a bit of color to them,
though it's hard to tell in the dimness of the shop. In addition, the
man wears a haughty sneer that seems to be the wrong size - like something
that used to fit him but doesn't, quite, any longer.
"H-hello," Wesley stammers.
White-blonde hair, bobbing like a ghost as the man nods a curt greeting.
"Are you - is there anyone here?"
"You and me are here, mate."
There aren't words for the surprise Wesley feels at the sound of the man's
voice, the accent that pegs him as having come from England. "Well, yes.
I meant an employee of some sort."
The man jerks his head toward the back. "Went back to get me some blood,"
the vampire says. His eyes look Wesley up and down, slowly, like he's
studying a crack in the wall. "You don't look like you belong here. Get
lost on the way home from school?"
Wesley stands up straighter, pushing his shoulders back. Making himself
taller. "I'm here to collect some blood, as well."
"Really." The vampire steps closer, bringing his face into the curve between
Wesley's neck and shoulder. Inhales deeply, mouth slightly open, as if
he's testing the scent of a fine wine. "Seems to me like you've got plenty
already."
Another step backward, and Wesley's hip bumps the counter. "It's not for
me. It's for my employer," he says, in clipped tones that will accept
no nonsense.
"Your..." And the man steps backward himself, one hand going nearly to
his head and then away in a sweeping gesture that encompasses the irony
of the world. "Oh, bloody hell. I knew you smelt familiar. You
work for him, don't you."
Something about the tone, combined with the stance and the man's physical
appearance, clicks in Wesley's brain. Thin for a vampire, buying blood
in a shop instead of killing for it, seeming to know that Wesley worked
for Angel... "Spike."
Before Spike -- and Wesley knows that it's Spike, he doesn't need confirmation
-- can reply, a clerk returns from the back of the shop with a bag in
his hand. The clerk is short and possibly blue-tinged, with small horns
next to his eyes. "Busy today," he observes, and hands the bag over to
Spike.
Spike waits there as Wesley tells the clerk who he is, and the demon disappears
into the back again to retrieve Angel's order.
"I heard you've been... neutered," Wesley says, blandly, without turning
his head to look at Spike.
There's a snort. "Yeah, well. Things happen. I'll find a way to get 'round
it."
"It would seem that you already have," Wesley tells him, referring to
the blood.
Another snort. "If you think all a vampire needs to stay healthy's a steady
supply of blood, you're as stupid as that pouf you work for."
Wesley isn't sure what offends him most -- the suggestion that he is stupid,
or the suggestion that Angel is stupid. "I'd advise you to keep comments
like that out of our conversation."
"Ooh - that a threat?"
Wesley turns and gives Spike a raised eyebrow. "No, most assuredly not.
I don't make threats."
Spike steps closer now, seeming to know instinctively that he's gained
the upper hand in a way Wesley can't quite define. His hips just brush
Wesley's, the front of his tight jeans sliding against Wesley's slacks.
"D'you make promises?" Spike asks seductively.
Flustered, Wesley says, "What... type of... promises?"
Rough jawline rubbing over his own in a rasp-kiss. Gentle air moving over
his skin as Spike says, "Oh, I think you know." Firmer press of hips against
his own now, hardening cock under the jeans unmistakable in its dark hopefulness.
And Wesley does know, and feels the answering stir of his own body. He
pushes forward against Spike and smiles, just slightly. "Yes," he says,
and it's an answer to an unspoken question.
The clerk returns, sets the bag on the counter, and accepts the money
Wesley hands him.
"You sure about this?" Spike asks, his voice low in Wesley's ear. "Because
virgin boys, taken for the first time -- likely to hurt a bit. Can't take
a chance on hurting you, you know."
"Oh, don't worry," Wesley tells him, as he takes the bag containing Angel's
order from the clerk and turns toward the door. "That's not going to be
a problem."
End
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