(no subject)
For btvs_santa. This fic for ruuger, who said "(Spike/Giles would also be one of those love-you-forever-if-you-write-this things)" in her request. Well, it's not a pairing I have ever done before, but I aim to please with this Christmas requests, so here is something a bit Spike/Giles-ish... Though in a slightly unconventional way, I think.
Title: 1975
Pairing: Spike/Giles
Word count: 1,160
Rating: 15/R for sexual and drug references
Summary: Giles looks back.
1975
1975. The year he turned 21. The year “Imagine” was released - not that he’d liked John Lennon back then, and the song still made him a little queasy. No, 1975 was a year for buying clothes at SEX if he could afford them or steal them and for customising his jeans with studs and tears if he couldn’t, and for going to sleep with kohl creased around his eyes. It looked best on the third day. He was deep in the underground then, both of music and of magic, listening to bands like The Saints and the up-and-coming The Swankers, who by the end of the year would be The Sex Pistols, and by 1976 would have changed the world of music. But this was ’75, and punk was brand new, and the only thing that excited Ripper more than the new sounds were his new powers. He’d spend long nights that bled into each other strung out on drugs or on magic, feeling that this was it, this was bloody it, he was in the midst of things and he’d never felt more alive or powerful.
He’d met Ethan not long after moving to London, at a meeting for warlock wannabes. It had been boring, skinny boys in black talking about sacrificing cockerels, and Ripper had been about to leave when he met Ethan, and knew. This was a bloke who knew his shit.
Mad months had followed that meeting. He’d earned his nickname in nights that blurred the lines between pain and pleasure. Ethan, Tom, Philip, Deidre, Randall - companions in his games, both in sex and magic. He remembered lying on a sofa, smoking a joint, watching Phil fuck Deidre, feeling that there was nothing in the world that could stop them being young and beautiful and strong. Sometimes it scares him that even now, even knowing how terrible things would become in London not long after that, he still misses how good he felt then.
One night he and Ethan headed out to the 100 Club, one of the best places in London to hear new bands. His hair was spiked up, his eyes creased with kohl. He knew he looked bloody brilliant, and he swaggered into the club like he owned it. Ripper knew Ethan kept looking at him, and knew what he wanted. Ripper had always known Ethan was a fruit. Ripper - well, he just liked shagging. Didn’t much matter who. But tonight he wasn’t interested in getting off with Ethan; he was in the mood for fresh blood.
And then he’d seen him - one of the most stunning men he’d ever seen. When he first saw Billy Idol a couple of years later, when he’d left his Ripper days behind him, for a moment his heart had stopped, thinking it was him, and had found it hard to suppress a quell of disappointment that it wasn’t.
He was slim, but not scrawny in the way a lot of men were in the 70s. He had some muscle on him, and his hair was a shock of bleached white. He had liner carelessly drawn around his eyes, and he wore a short leather jacket covered in zips. The crowd seemed to part around him, and he moved with a cocky confidence that Ripper found - why not admit it? - bloody sexy. Then the stranger had got into a fight with some other young punks, and Ripper had seen someone whose appetite for chaos exceeded his own. Exceeded even Ethan’s. He’d thrown himself into the fight, not knowing what it was about and not caring, and the whole gig had descended into flying fists and broken noses. The blond bloke had looked over at him at one point and grinned as blood streamed from his split lip, and Ripper had felt himself grow hard.
The fight had stopped as suddenly as it started, and Ripper and the stranger had limped to the bar, where they drank a few pints and Ripper learned the bloke’s name was Spike. When Ripper had given his name Spike had grinned broadly.
“Good name, I reckon,” he said, and slung his arm around Ripper’s shoulder, leading him outside.
“You’re a vampire,” said Ripper calmly as he leaned against a wall in the dark alleyway. Spike looked up from the cigarette he was lighting. His expression was surprised.
“Yeah, s’pose I am. How d’you know?”
Ripper shrugged. He didn’t want to confess his Watcher upbringing.
“Jus’ know,” he said laconically. “Suppose you brought me out here to suck my blood. You’re welcome to try,” he said, with all the arrogance that youth and five pints of lager can bring. Spike flashed another grin at him.
“Was going to, yeah, but you’ve got balls. I like that. Reckon I’ll let you live,” he said, and Ripper pulled Spike towards him, kissing him hard, tasting the blood on his busted lip and the cigarettes on his breath. Spike didn’t respond at first, and then suddenly pushed Ripper up against the wall, one hand - still holding his fag - pressed into Ripper’s shoulder, the other tangled roughly in his hair. Then Spike had pulled back, looking a little guilty and muttering something about needing to get back to Dru. He tucked his cigarette behind his ear and started to walk off.
“Will I see you around?” called Ripper. Spike turned back and shrugged.
“Dunno, mate. Thinkin’ of going to New York. That whole scene looks set to explode,” he said with a grin. “Small world an’ all that, though, so maybe.” He chucked his packet of fags at Ripper, who caught them deftly. “Smoke ‘em for me,” he said, and sauntered off into the night.
That was the last Ripper saw of him, and eventually he forgot the taste of the vampire’s mouth and the hard lines of his face. And then, more than twenty years later, his old life reared unexpectedly at him.
“Spike? That’s what the other vampire called him? That’s a little unorthodox, isn’t it?” he said to Buffy, stifling the painful leaping of his heart as Buffy said the name of the vampire she’d encountered. Then she described him as “like, some - what’s that guy called? - Billy Idol wannabe. Total bleach head”. Hands deep in his jacket pockets, no one had seen Giles’ fists clench.
When Giles finally came across Spike, weeks later, after Buffy had several run-ins with him and he’d sat with folded arms listening to her reports, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Spike had looked at him for a long moment, and then shrugged and turned away. Unlike Spike, twenty two years had made him look different, and Ripper was long dead, or at least buried. All the same, as Spike stalked away, bleached hair gleaming under the neon streetlights, Giles had remembered how Spike had walked away from him in that alley, leaving the taste of blood and smoke in his mouth.
Title: 1975
Pairing: Spike/Giles
Word count: 1,160
Rating: 15/R for sexual and drug references
Summary: Giles looks back.
1975
1975. The year he turned 21. The year “Imagine” was released - not that he’d liked John Lennon back then, and the song still made him a little queasy. No, 1975 was a year for buying clothes at SEX if he could afford them or steal them and for customising his jeans with studs and tears if he couldn’t, and for going to sleep with kohl creased around his eyes. It looked best on the third day. He was deep in the underground then, both of music and of magic, listening to bands like The Saints and the up-and-coming The Swankers, who by the end of the year would be The Sex Pistols, and by 1976 would have changed the world of music. But this was ’75, and punk was brand new, and the only thing that excited Ripper more than the new sounds were his new powers. He’d spend long nights that bled into each other strung out on drugs or on magic, feeling that this was it, this was bloody it, he was in the midst of things and he’d never felt more alive or powerful.
He’d met Ethan not long after moving to London, at a meeting for warlock wannabes. It had been boring, skinny boys in black talking about sacrificing cockerels, and Ripper had been about to leave when he met Ethan, and knew. This was a bloke who knew his shit.
Mad months had followed that meeting. He’d earned his nickname in nights that blurred the lines between pain and pleasure. Ethan, Tom, Philip, Deidre, Randall - companions in his games, both in sex and magic. He remembered lying on a sofa, smoking a joint, watching Phil fuck Deidre, feeling that there was nothing in the world that could stop them being young and beautiful and strong. Sometimes it scares him that even now, even knowing how terrible things would become in London not long after that, he still misses how good he felt then.
One night he and Ethan headed out to the 100 Club, one of the best places in London to hear new bands. His hair was spiked up, his eyes creased with kohl. He knew he looked bloody brilliant, and he swaggered into the club like he owned it. Ripper knew Ethan kept looking at him, and knew what he wanted. Ripper had always known Ethan was a fruit. Ripper - well, he just liked shagging. Didn’t much matter who. But tonight he wasn’t interested in getting off with Ethan; he was in the mood for fresh blood.
And then he’d seen him - one of the most stunning men he’d ever seen. When he first saw Billy Idol a couple of years later, when he’d left his Ripper days behind him, for a moment his heart had stopped, thinking it was him, and had found it hard to suppress a quell of disappointment that it wasn’t.
He was slim, but not scrawny in the way a lot of men were in the 70s. He had some muscle on him, and his hair was a shock of bleached white. He had liner carelessly drawn around his eyes, and he wore a short leather jacket covered in zips. The crowd seemed to part around him, and he moved with a cocky confidence that Ripper found - why not admit it? - bloody sexy. Then the stranger had got into a fight with some other young punks, and Ripper had seen someone whose appetite for chaos exceeded his own. Exceeded even Ethan’s. He’d thrown himself into the fight, not knowing what it was about and not caring, and the whole gig had descended into flying fists and broken noses. The blond bloke had looked over at him at one point and grinned as blood streamed from his split lip, and Ripper had felt himself grow hard.
The fight had stopped as suddenly as it started, and Ripper and the stranger had limped to the bar, where they drank a few pints and Ripper learned the bloke’s name was Spike. When Ripper had given his name Spike had grinned broadly.
“Good name, I reckon,” he said, and slung his arm around Ripper’s shoulder, leading him outside.
“You’re a vampire,” said Ripper calmly as he leaned against a wall in the dark alleyway. Spike looked up from the cigarette he was lighting. His expression was surprised.
“Yeah, s’pose I am. How d’you know?”
Ripper shrugged. He didn’t want to confess his Watcher upbringing.
“Jus’ know,” he said laconically. “Suppose you brought me out here to suck my blood. You’re welcome to try,” he said, with all the arrogance that youth and five pints of lager can bring. Spike flashed another grin at him.
“Was going to, yeah, but you’ve got balls. I like that. Reckon I’ll let you live,” he said, and Ripper pulled Spike towards him, kissing him hard, tasting the blood on his busted lip and the cigarettes on his breath. Spike didn’t respond at first, and then suddenly pushed Ripper up against the wall, one hand - still holding his fag - pressed into Ripper’s shoulder, the other tangled roughly in his hair. Then Spike had pulled back, looking a little guilty and muttering something about needing to get back to Dru. He tucked his cigarette behind his ear and started to walk off.
“Will I see you around?” called Ripper. Spike turned back and shrugged.
“Dunno, mate. Thinkin’ of going to New York. That whole scene looks set to explode,” he said with a grin. “Small world an’ all that, though, so maybe.” He chucked his packet of fags at Ripper, who caught them deftly. “Smoke ‘em for me,” he said, and sauntered off into the night.
That was the last Ripper saw of him, and eventually he forgot the taste of the vampire’s mouth and the hard lines of his face. And then, more than twenty years later, his old life reared unexpectedly at him.
“Spike? That’s what the other vampire called him? That’s a little unorthodox, isn’t it?” he said to Buffy, stifling the painful leaping of his heart as Buffy said the name of the vampire she’d encountered. Then she described him as “like, some - what’s that guy called? - Billy Idol wannabe. Total bleach head”. Hands deep in his jacket pockets, no one had seen Giles’ fists clench.
When Giles finally came across Spike, weeks later, after Buffy had several run-ins with him and he’d sat with folded arms listening to her reports, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Spike had looked at him for a long moment, and then shrugged and turned away. Unlike Spike, twenty two years had made him look different, and Ripper was long dead, or at least buried. All the same, as Spike stalked away, bleached hair gleaming under the neon streetlights, Giles had remembered how Spike had walked away from him in that alley, leaving the taste of blood and smoke in his mouth.