Fic: Embracing Eternity
Title: Embracing Eternity
Author: Lostgirl
Pairing: Giles/Spike
Rating: R
Summary: Sequel to ' For the Souls of the Departed,' but it can probably be read alone. Giles and Spike deal with the fallout after a death.
Spoilers: Set post 'Chosen'
Warnings: mild Bloodplay
Feedback and Concrit adored: lostgirlslair @ yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All things BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
Many thanks to the wonderful Malnpudl for her fantastic beta!
Written for viciouswishes for the Gilesathon, organized by raedbard (master list here). Her request is at the end of the story.
I hope you don't mind the sequel status, sweetie!
Spike slammed open the door to Rupert's study, taking a grim satisfaction from the way it crashed against the wall. This had to stop, had to end. Rupert didn't look up from his books. He didn't so much as flinch at the noise. His pen continued scribbling over the paper and his eyes followed the words on the page. It was the way Rupert ignored him that hurt the most, Spike had come to realize, the way nothing he did could pull a reaction from the stubborn man.
"You're going to eat this," Spike growled, stalking over to the desk and plopping a mug of pig's blood onto Rupert's notes.
That, finally, got Rupert's attention. He stopped writing, his whole body going still for a moment before his head turned toward the mug. He contemplated it and then he looked up at Spike, rage burning in muddy green eyes.
Part of that rage, Spike knew, was hunger. Rupert hadn't eaten since they'd brought him home, souled and broken. He'd refused to touch blood of any type, warm or cold or straight from Spike's arm. The disgust he'd seen in Rupert's eyes at the last suggestion had been hard to get over. That was, Spike hated to admit, the reason it had taken him so long to force an end to the situation.
"That's not going to happen, Spike. Take it away." Rupert's voice was cold in a way Spike had never heard it, even when Rupert had been soulless and taunting him. Even then, there had been passion to the words, some feeling attached. Now there was nothing; the chill of it stung like frostbite.
For a week now Rupert had not eaten, had not touched Spike, had not seen anyone. He'd even refused to speak to the two Watchers who'd come to the house. They'd told Spike that they'd do everything they could to get Rupert booted from the Council.
If Rupert had had fewer supporters, he'd already have been history. Led by Buffy and Faith, more than two-thirds of the Slayers had written, phoned and emailed to show their support of Rupert, vampire or not. With Willow leading the way, many of the wiccas who'd agreed to work with the new Council supported Rupert. Wesley and Xander had spent days in meetings, refusing to let the matter come to a vote. Yet, Spike's presence was all that kept some of the Watchers-who were, in the end, all that mattered to the older members of the Council--from leaving Rupert's side of the argument.
Rupert had made no attempt to fight the process. Instead, he'd sat in his study, slept in his study, refused to see even Buffy and the others who'd come to London to back him.
"You have to, love. Or you'll die."
"Don't call me that." There was no heat in Rupert's voice as he turned his eyes back to his books. Spike clenched his jaw. He slammed his hand down on the book from which Rupert had been taking notes.
"If I have to tie you to that damn chair and force feed you, you'll drink every--" he snickered--"bloody drop. You hear me? You think I’m just going to sit by and watch you kill yourself? Watch you fade? S'not gonna happen."
Rupert stared at his hand. "Try it," he said softly, voice biting and frigid.
"Don't make me, Rupert. I can, with you as weak as a damn kitten. If it comes to it, I'll do it, every day for the rest of eternity if I bloody well have to, but don't make me."
Rupert sighed and Spike's eyes flickered down to catch the movement of his chest. Too many times to count, Spike had rested his head there, listening to the slow, steady beat of Rupert's heart. He'd once loved the way it rose and fell beneath his hands, the way breathing and heartbeat sped when he touched Rupert. The warmth of his lover's skin was a memory now.
"I can't drink it, Spike." There was an urgency to the words, a sense that Rupert needed him to understand. Spike couldn't, wasn't even going to try. Rupert could be all too convincing when he spoke in that intense tone.
"You can. You will. One way or the other. Now, come on." Spike let his voice soften then, some of his worry showing through as he automatically took on a cajoling tone he'd learned with Dru. "Don't want to get blood rings on your notes."
"I can't be what I've hated for so long," Rupert ground out, finally meeting Spike's eyes once again. The determination in his lover's gaze was frightening. It drew out the anger Spike had been trying to ignore.
"So you can't be a vampire, but you can fuck one?" he growled, lashing out. "No, wait, apparently you can't fuck one now either, right? I'm not good enough anymore? I suppose you'll find some nice human to--"
"Stop it," Rupert snapped out, standing in a rush, his voice hard, but no longer cold. The movement was quick for a human, but for a vampire it was positively sluggish.
"Why? I'm just the same as you are. If you loathe yourself so much you want to die, you got to feel the same 'bout me, right?" Spike forced himself not to move, to meet that glare head on and return it.
"It's not the same," Rupert ground out, still staring at him hard. "I'm not like you, Spike. You-you chose a soul. I wouldn't . . . I would never have done that. I'd have slaughtered everyone . . . I would have . . . I'm not like you, Spike. I'm cursed." Rupert slumped back into his chair, his hands rubbing over his face before swiping through his hair and then clutching the back of his neck. "I'm more like Angel," he said in a voice so sad and soft that Spike wasn't sure he'd heard right.
He moved closer, reaching out a shaking hand to brush over Rupert's fingers. He wasn't warm anymore, but he was still Rupert.
"Like Angel?"
"I could lose my soul. I could . . . I'm a danger to everyone around me, all the time, forever. At--at any moment . . . God, how can he live this way? It's so much safer for me to die, Spike."
"But to lose your soul . . ." Spike shook his head, "to lose your soul, you got to have a moment of true happiness, right? Eat something and I'll promise to never stop being a prat."
Rupert snorted, his hands moving minutely into Spike's touch.
"The irony is painful, isn't it? Jenny, Angelus, and I . . ." Rupert sounded like a lost child and Spike's gut clenched. He decided he hated that tone more than any other. Rupert Giles should never sound that way.
Spike went to his knees next to Rupert, looking up into his face. Rupert had shifted into game face. Spike wondered if he even knew he'd done it. It could be the blood, so close. God, it had to be tempting, that warm, thick smell in the air around them.
"I know," Spike sighed, laying his hands on Rupert's thigh and squeezing gently. "But you're being selfish."
Rupert's eyes snapped to him, body going rigid as he glared.
"Don't give me that look, love. I know you too damn well. You feel sorry for yourself, you've wrapped yourself up in 'contemplating the irony' so you won't have to deal with what's happenin'."
Rupert went to speak and Spike shot forward, his hand sliding around Rupert's neck and pulling him into a kiss. Rupert didn't resist. In fact, he met Spike halfway. The kiss was hungry, feral, the first they'd shared since Rupert's . . . death.
Lips, tongues, teeth, all came together; hard and fast and with so much longing on both sides that Spike didn't know how they'd managed not to break sooner. He'd been trying to give Rupert time to adjust. He'd thought, with enough time, Rupert would accept the inevitable and they'd be back to where they'd been before all of this.
Rupert bit him, hard. Spike moaned, pressing his body forward, but Rupert pulled back as if it had been Spike who'd done the biting. Expression stunned, horrified, Rupert raised a hand to Spike's lips fingers dipping into the blood there.
"God . . . Spike, I . . . oh, god." He stared at his blood-smeared fingertip; the flare of hunger in his eyes might well have been missed by anyone else, but Spike knew it too well.
"In case you didn't notice, I wasn't exactly complaining." Spike didn't bother to thrust his hardened cock against Rupert's leg. His excitement would be obvious if Rupert thought about it, but, beyond that, Spike wasn't sure he could take seeing that disgust in Rupert's eyes again.
"I didn't mean to . . ." Rupert's words trailed off as Spike leaned in, lips closing around Rupert's finger, sucking gently before he pulled back and licked the digit clean. He could smell Rupert's arousal. It filled the air, mingling with the smell of the blood, wrapping around them both.
Rupert sat completely still, the way an animal will when they know a predator is watching. There was no fear on his face, however, just a look of confusion so profound it made Spike's chest ache.
"I don't want to be this," Rupert said softly. "I don't want to feel this way."
"There are three of us in the whole world, Rupert. None of us do."
Rupert nodded and frowned, the confusion still filling his eyes. "And if I said I wish that you'd staked me?"
Spike flinched. He knew it, hated it, but couldn't help it. He'd been afraid Rupert would blame him. He'd thought, perhaps, that was the reason his lover wouldn't touch him, could barely look at him.
"All you have to do is ask," Spike finally said, though he couldn't look Rupert in the eyes as he said it. He'd do it. He'd promised himself that if Rupert, after his soul was returned, chose to die, he'd do it. He wasn't sure he'd actually meant it though, wasn't sure until he'd heard a lost child speak with Rupert's voice. Now, if Rupert asked, he'd do it.
"Spike?"
He didn't want to look up, fear coiling in his gut, making his throat tight, but he couldn't resist the pull of that voice. His eyes traveled slowly up Rupert's body, taking his time, mapping, memorizing. Finally, his eyes met green-gold ones.
"I . . . I want your word that you won't let me hurt anyone. If--If I ever lose myself . . . you'll stake me. I have to know you'll do it. I have to know you won't even try to re-soul me first."
Spike opened his mouth to protest and then paused. The anguish in Rupert's eyes was too much. He found himself nodding mutely.
"Say it."
"I promise," Spike said at once, realizing what this meant. Rupert wasn't going to ask now, wasn't going to make him do it unless he lost his soul. Rupert was going to eat, to . . . live.
Spike watched as Rupert's face resolved somewhat, some of the confusion leaving, the frown easing off his lips. His eyes flicked to the mug of pig's blood. Rupert's hand shook as he reached for it. Spike made to pull away, but Rupert's hand closed around his arm. The grip wasn't tight, just a question, asking Spike to stay.
Rupert stared into the cup for a long moment. Spike saw his throat move in a hard swallow and then Rupert gave in. He slumped and downed the pig's blood with what could easily have been relish. Even pig's blood tasted like ambrosia when it had been a week since one had eaten, a fact Spike knew all too well.
Rupert's throat worked for a moment and then he lowered the mug, his eyes closed. A moment later his tongue darted out for a lingering lick of his own lips. Spike reached up, tentative, brushing his fingers across the ridges on Rupert's forehead. Rupert didn't pull away. He leaned into the touch.
"Still hungry?" Spike asked. When Rupert's eyes opened, Spike saw exhaustion there. Rupert glanced down at the mug and nodded unhappily.
"I'll go heat some more."
Rupert didn't let go of him, though. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "Later. We can, uh, eat together." There was a slight, pained tone to the words, but Spike ignored it, instead taking the signals Rupert was giving him.
He moved to sit between Rupert's legs, leaning back against his lover and sighing. It had been so long since he'd been here, sitting with Rupert this way. Rupert's arms slid around his chest, cheek pressing against Spike's hair. There was an ease in Rupert's body that had not been there before. Not peace, that was a long way off, if it even existed for either of them, but acceptance. A start.
It was slightly cold throughout the house. Neither of them had bothered with the heater or with fires in the gratings. Neither of them really felt the cold any more. At least not until a warm body pointed it out. The room was quiet; the only sound the ticking of Rupert's clock. No breath, no heartbeats, no arguing, just the two of them wrapped around one another.
Spike thought he could almost spend eternity that way.
****
viciouswishes wanted Giles/Spike, 'a comfortable quietness', not set when Buffy was dead.
Author: Lostgirl
Pairing: Giles/Spike
Rating: R
Summary: Sequel to ' For the Souls of the Departed,' but it can probably be read alone. Giles and Spike deal with the fallout after a death.
Spoilers: Set post 'Chosen'
Warnings: mild Bloodplay
Feedback and Concrit adored: lostgirlslair @ yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All things BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
Many thanks to the wonderful Malnpudl for her fantastic beta!
Written for viciouswishes for the Gilesathon, organized by raedbard (master list here). Her request is at the end of the story.
I hope you don't mind the sequel status, sweetie!
Spike slammed open the door to Rupert's study, taking a grim satisfaction from the way it crashed against the wall. This had to stop, had to end. Rupert didn't look up from his books. He didn't so much as flinch at the noise. His pen continued scribbling over the paper and his eyes followed the words on the page. It was the way Rupert ignored him that hurt the most, Spike had come to realize, the way nothing he did could pull a reaction from the stubborn man.
"You're going to eat this," Spike growled, stalking over to the desk and plopping a mug of pig's blood onto Rupert's notes.
That, finally, got Rupert's attention. He stopped writing, his whole body going still for a moment before his head turned toward the mug. He contemplated it and then he looked up at Spike, rage burning in muddy green eyes.
Part of that rage, Spike knew, was hunger. Rupert hadn't eaten since they'd brought him home, souled and broken. He'd refused to touch blood of any type, warm or cold or straight from Spike's arm. The disgust he'd seen in Rupert's eyes at the last suggestion had been hard to get over. That was, Spike hated to admit, the reason it had taken him so long to force an end to the situation.
"That's not going to happen, Spike. Take it away." Rupert's voice was cold in a way Spike had never heard it, even when Rupert had been soulless and taunting him. Even then, there had been passion to the words, some feeling attached. Now there was nothing; the chill of it stung like frostbite.
For a week now Rupert had not eaten, had not touched Spike, had not seen anyone. He'd even refused to speak to the two Watchers who'd come to the house. They'd told Spike that they'd do everything they could to get Rupert booted from the Council.
If Rupert had had fewer supporters, he'd already have been history. Led by Buffy and Faith, more than two-thirds of the Slayers had written, phoned and emailed to show their support of Rupert, vampire or not. With Willow leading the way, many of the wiccas who'd agreed to work with the new Council supported Rupert. Wesley and Xander had spent days in meetings, refusing to let the matter come to a vote. Yet, Spike's presence was all that kept some of the Watchers-who were, in the end, all that mattered to the older members of the Council--from leaving Rupert's side of the argument.
Rupert had made no attempt to fight the process. Instead, he'd sat in his study, slept in his study, refused to see even Buffy and the others who'd come to London to back him.
"You have to, love. Or you'll die."
"Don't call me that." There was no heat in Rupert's voice as he turned his eyes back to his books. Spike clenched his jaw. He slammed his hand down on the book from which Rupert had been taking notes.
"If I have to tie you to that damn chair and force feed you, you'll drink every--" he snickered--"bloody drop. You hear me? You think I’m just going to sit by and watch you kill yourself? Watch you fade? S'not gonna happen."
Rupert stared at his hand. "Try it," he said softly, voice biting and frigid.
"Don't make me, Rupert. I can, with you as weak as a damn kitten. If it comes to it, I'll do it, every day for the rest of eternity if I bloody well have to, but don't make me."
Rupert sighed and Spike's eyes flickered down to catch the movement of his chest. Too many times to count, Spike had rested his head there, listening to the slow, steady beat of Rupert's heart. He'd once loved the way it rose and fell beneath his hands, the way breathing and heartbeat sped when he touched Rupert. The warmth of his lover's skin was a memory now.
"I can't drink it, Spike." There was an urgency to the words, a sense that Rupert needed him to understand. Spike couldn't, wasn't even going to try. Rupert could be all too convincing when he spoke in that intense tone.
"You can. You will. One way or the other. Now, come on." Spike let his voice soften then, some of his worry showing through as he automatically took on a cajoling tone he'd learned with Dru. "Don't want to get blood rings on your notes."
"I can't be what I've hated for so long," Rupert ground out, finally meeting Spike's eyes once again. The determination in his lover's gaze was frightening. It drew out the anger Spike had been trying to ignore.
"So you can't be a vampire, but you can fuck one?" he growled, lashing out. "No, wait, apparently you can't fuck one now either, right? I'm not good enough anymore? I suppose you'll find some nice human to--"
"Stop it," Rupert snapped out, standing in a rush, his voice hard, but no longer cold. The movement was quick for a human, but for a vampire it was positively sluggish.
"Why? I'm just the same as you are. If you loathe yourself so much you want to die, you got to feel the same 'bout me, right?" Spike forced himself not to move, to meet that glare head on and return it.
"It's not the same," Rupert ground out, still staring at him hard. "I'm not like you, Spike. You-you chose a soul. I wouldn't . . . I would never have done that. I'd have slaughtered everyone . . . I would have . . . I'm not like you, Spike. I'm cursed." Rupert slumped back into his chair, his hands rubbing over his face before swiping through his hair and then clutching the back of his neck. "I'm more like Angel," he said in a voice so sad and soft that Spike wasn't sure he'd heard right.
He moved closer, reaching out a shaking hand to brush over Rupert's fingers. He wasn't warm anymore, but he was still Rupert.
"Like Angel?"
"I could lose my soul. I could . . . I'm a danger to everyone around me, all the time, forever. At--at any moment . . . God, how can he live this way? It's so much safer for me to die, Spike."
"But to lose your soul . . ." Spike shook his head, "to lose your soul, you got to have a moment of true happiness, right? Eat something and I'll promise to never stop being a prat."
Rupert snorted, his hands moving minutely into Spike's touch.
"The irony is painful, isn't it? Jenny, Angelus, and I . . ." Rupert sounded like a lost child and Spike's gut clenched. He decided he hated that tone more than any other. Rupert Giles should never sound that way.
Spike went to his knees next to Rupert, looking up into his face. Rupert had shifted into game face. Spike wondered if he even knew he'd done it. It could be the blood, so close. God, it had to be tempting, that warm, thick smell in the air around them.
"I know," Spike sighed, laying his hands on Rupert's thigh and squeezing gently. "But you're being selfish."
Rupert's eyes snapped to him, body going rigid as he glared.
"Don't give me that look, love. I know you too damn well. You feel sorry for yourself, you've wrapped yourself up in 'contemplating the irony' so you won't have to deal with what's happenin'."
Rupert went to speak and Spike shot forward, his hand sliding around Rupert's neck and pulling him into a kiss. Rupert didn't resist. In fact, he met Spike halfway. The kiss was hungry, feral, the first they'd shared since Rupert's . . . death.
Lips, tongues, teeth, all came together; hard and fast and with so much longing on both sides that Spike didn't know how they'd managed not to break sooner. He'd been trying to give Rupert time to adjust. He'd thought, with enough time, Rupert would accept the inevitable and they'd be back to where they'd been before all of this.
Rupert bit him, hard. Spike moaned, pressing his body forward, but Rupert pulled back as if it had been Spike who'd done the biting. Expression stunned, horrified, Rupert raised a hand to Spike's lips fingers dipping into the blood there.
"God . . . Spike, I . . . oh, god." He stared at his blood-smeared fingertip; the flare of hunger in his eyes might well have been missed by anyone else, but Spike knew it too well.
"In case you didn't notice, I wasn't exactly complaining." Spike didn't bother to thrust his hardened cock against Rupert's leg. His excitement would be obvious if Rupert thought about it, but, beyond that, Spike wasn't sure he could take seeing that disgust in Rupert's eyes again.
"I didn't mean to . . ." Rupert's words trailed off as Spike leaned in, lips closing around Rupert's finger, sucking gently before he pulled back and licked the digit clean. He could smell Rupert's arousal. It filled the air, mingling with the smell of the blood, wrapping around them both.
Rupert sat completely still, the way an animal will when they know a predator is watching. There was no fear on his face, however, just a look of confusion so profound it made Spike's chest ache.
"I don't want to be this," Rupert said softly. "I don't want to feel this way."
"There are three of us in the whole world, Rupert. None of us do."
Rupert nodded and frowned, the confusion still filling his eyes. "And if I said I wish that you'd staked me?"
Spike flinched. He knew it, hated it, but couldn't help it. He'd been afraid Rupert would blame him. He'd thought, perhaps, that was the reason his lover wouldn't touch him, could barely look at him.
"All you have to do is ask," Spike finally said, though he couldn't look Rupert in the eyes as he said it. He'd do it. He'd promised himself that if Rupert, after his soul was returned, chose to die, he'd do it. He wasn't sure he'd actually meant it though, wasn't sure until he'd heard a lost child speak with Rupert's voice. Now, if Rupert asked, he'd do it.
"Spike?"
He didn't want to look up, fear coiling in his gut, making his throat tight, but he couldn't resist the pull of that voice. His eyes traveled slowly up Rupert's body, taking his time, mapping, memorizing. Finally, his eyes met green-gold ones.
"I . . . I want your word that you won't let me hurt anyone. If--If I ever lose myself . . . you'll stake me. I have to know you'll do it. I have to know you won't even try to re-soul me first."
Spike opened his mouth to protest and then paused. The anguish in Rupert's eyes was too much. He found himself nodding mutely.
"Say it."
"I promise," Spike said at once, realizing what this meant. Rupert wasn't going to ask now, wasn't going to make him do it unless he lost his soul. Rupert was going to eat, to . . . live.
Spike watched as Rupert's face resolved somewhat, some of the confusion leaving, the frown easing off his lips. His eyes flicked to the mug of pig's blood. Rupert's hand shook as he reached for it. Spike made to pull away, but Rupert's hand closed around his arm. The grip wasn't tight, just a question, asking Spike to stay.
Rupert stared into the cup for a long moment. Spike saw his throat move in a hard swallow and then Rupert gave in. He slumped and downed the pig's blood with what could easily have been relish. Even pig's blood tasted like ambrosia when it had been a week since one had eaten, a fact Spike knew all too well.
Rupert's throat worked for a moment and then he lowered the mug, his eyes closed. A moment later his tongue darted out for a lingering lick of his own lips. Spike reached up, tentative, brushing his fingers across the ridges on Rupert's forehead. Rupert didn't pull away. He leaned into the touch.
"Still hungry?" Spike asked. When Rupert's eyes opened, Spike saw exhaustion there. Rupert glanced down at the mug and nodded unhappily.
"I'll go heat some more."
Rupert didn't let go of him, though. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "Later. We can, uh, eat together." There was a slight, pained tone to the words, but Spike ignored it, instead taking the signals Rupert was giving him.
He moved to sit between Rupert's legs, leaning back against his lover and sighing. It had been so long since he'd been here, sitting with Rupert this way. Rupert's arms slid around his chest, cheek pressing against Spike's hair. There was an ease in Rupert's body that had not been there before. Not peace, that was a long way off, if it even existed for either of them, but acceptance. A start.
It was slightly cold throughout the house. Neither of them had bothered with the heater or with fires in the gratings. Neither of them really felt the cold any more. At least not until a warm body pointed it out. The room was quiet; the only sound the ticking of Rupert's clock. No breath, no heartbeats, no arguing, just the two of them wrapped around one another.
Spike thought he could almost spend eternity that way.
****
viciouswishes wanted Giles/Spike, 'a comfortable quietness', not set when Buffy was dead.