Ficathon entry: Four Step Programme
So, a mere decade or so after the rest of Buffydom, I've started experimenting with slash... And there was a call for a pinch-hitter for the ‘Welcome to the Nancy Tribe’ ficathon, hosted by ruuger, which celebrates Spike, Giles and Wes in a plethora of fabulous combinations. And this is my effort: now, with added Spike-voice.
Title: Four Step Programme
Author: Bruttimabuoni
Pairing: Spike/Giles
Rating: Adult
Summary: post ‘The Gift’, Spike and Giles have reasons to get closer. More humour than angst or romance.
Prompt: an argument over an author/literary work, a touch of h/c. I hope it delivers!
It was during one of the Buffybot’s scheduled services that they really started to talk.
The Scoobies were badly stretched already, and in the end only they two were available to tackle a nasty outbreak of teen vampire cult. No one had yet said it, but everyone knew the gang was on the verge of breaking; that Buffy’s absence would be impossible to hide much longer.
In fact, they started to argue, after Spike slayed the lead vampire while criticising his decision to try to raise the demon Astr’ga’wrax. “Bonkers. That’s what you are. Nuts. Crackers. He’s a stone age demon. You need to buck your ideas up, be dragged kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat.”
The vampire dusted with a look of puzzlement which suggested he wasn’t altogether familiar with recent British fantasy comedy. Spike was too busy moving on to mop up the minions to appreciate the expression. Giles, however, was looking in the right direction as his own fight ended, and couldn’t help but comment.
“I can’t believe you quoted Terry Pratchett while killing. Do you really think that‘s clever?”
“Behind you!” Spike, skewering a couple of hefty specimens, pointed out Giles still needed to watch out for the smaller, less impressive minions who were now trying to join the fray. But he couldn’t resist continuing, “Why the hell not? Writing’s as good as any of your toffee-nosed Victorians. Bloody Trollope and his parso-”
Skinny Minions 2 through 6 attempted a mass attack. It was nearly pathetic, given their disorganisation, but a certain amount of concentration was required to disentangle the mess enough to slay them. It was only when they were down to the last three specimens that Giles managed to pick up the topic again.
“Don’t knock the Victorians, Spike. I’m pretty sure you were one.”
“’Sright. Was one. Not any more, and right glad of it. Gives me a special insight into the garbage they spouted.”
And then Skinny Minion #7, previously unobserved in the corner of the sepulchre, emerged with a small but hefty memorial sculpture and smashed it full into Giles’s face.
Spike dusted the minion at once, but Giles was too unconscious to appreciate it.
*
It was during the emergency first aid that they touched.
Touched more closely than since….come to think of it, since the emergency surgery to remove Spike’s tracker. A theme was emerging in their relationship, if either had cared to examine it.
Giles’s nose was probably not broken, and he’d begged off the hospital in favour of Spike’s tender care and some steri-strips on the worst of the cuts. The vampire was well practiced from patching himself up, and nobly overlooked his patient’s intermittent flinches as the cleaning and dressing wore on. He also dropped his usual line in scathing babble, figuring Giles had enough to deal with.
Spike considered the other’s man’s state of health. It had been a nasty blow, causing myriad small jagged tears in the skin. Bruises were going to be impressive and the split lip was already swollen, but his eyes were focusing and he didn’t appear concussed. An ice pack over half his face didn’t add to his dignity, admittedly, but it could, on the whole, have been a hell of a lot worse.
“Talk to me. It helps to be distracted, and as you’re all that’s on offer…” Giles’s mouth looked as if it would be grinning, if it didn’t hurt too much. Evidently Spike’d made the wrong call on the chatter.
He took the ungracious request as intended: “Charmed, my dear sir, positively charmed by your flattering invitation. Huh. Well, since you’re helplessly at my mercy, I’ll finish this evening’s lecture on why the high Victorian novel can suck my dick.” He settled back into the sofa. Far, far more comfy than the one in his crypt. He’d missed really well sprung upholstery. Must get some better cushions from the dump.
Unfortunately, he realised he’d already been silent long enough for Giles to lose focus. The Watcher’s eyes were getting that thousand-yard stare which meant the painkillers weren’t taking the edge off. Time for some lengthy and comfortingly pseudo-intellectual distraction.
“It’s the moralising, mainly. The bad get punished, the good prosper so long as they’re on the strait and narrow.”
And he was off. Emily’s Bronte’s habit of killing the dogs to make you weep; Trollope’s overfed clergy; Thackeray‘s uncritical endorsement of contemporary values in Henry Esmond; “Edward sodding Bulwer-Lytton and his endless wittering about the weather”; Dickens’s sacrifice of coherent plot to “appease his blithering fans’ every twitch of mood.” George Eliot, Mrs Gaskell, Thomas Hardy, all were fed in, chewed up and dispatched with relish. It had been ages since he’d had a chance to rant properly. Longer still since he’d chatted to someone who might recognise the name Charlotte M Yonge. He wasn’t about to skimp on the detail.
Giles listened silently, eyes fixed on Spike as the tumble of words flooded on. Occasional spasms of pain passed across his face, though some were perhaps caused more by stifled horror at the icons being demolished than by physical agony.
Spike was about to move on to the underappreciated virtues of fantasy fiction, with particular reference to the Pratchett oeuvre, when he suddenly smacked the sofa arm, literary critic‘s rage refreshed with a new complaint against the Victorians: “And then, and this is something they all bloody do, just when you know where you are with the predictable fates, for no good reason, they throw in a death. A young, beautiful, virtuous…girl…just… dies.”
The room was very silent for a while. Buffy was so strong in presence it felt as if she was sitting between them. As though they needed a reminder of her loss.
Then Giles shifted incautiously, dislodged the ice pack and broke the tension with a heartfelt, “Bugger. That hurt.”
Spike shrugged resignedly. “Get off to bed, you‘re not fit to be up. I’ll stay on the sofa, check you’re not in a coma later on.”
*
It was during one of his recurring nightmares that Giles woke to find a naked vampire’s arms around him.
“Giles? Giles! Rupert sodding Giles, wake up! I’m not a bloody nursemaid.”
“Wha-whu?”
“You were dreaming. It was loud.”
“Sorry.” The great British apology reflex was in full working order. But the rest of Giles couldn’t stop shaking.
“Well, now you’re awake, and obviously not comatose…” Spike let his arms drop, and half-rose to go back downstairs.
“Spike.“ Generally speaking, Giles didn’t get that much desperation into a monosyllable. It was enough to freeze the vampire in mid-motion. Abruptly wakened, Giles couldn‘t keep up his usual cool, civilised façade. He spoke from the gut, wrenching out the syllables: “There’s…there’s too much in my head. I dream of her. Of how we should have…” The words trailed off, hardly needing to be spoken. Spike knew all too well how those dreams felt.
“Stay.”
“Hunh?” Not one of Spike’s better lines. But he had no idea what was implied in that taut, whispered word.
Giles’s voice was bleak. “Please don’t leave me alone with all these thoughts. I can’t stand it.”
“This isn’t just a cunning plan to get me into your bed is it?” Flummoxed, Spike came up with the most uncomfortable remark possible. It was unexpectedly perfect - an opportunity for amusement when neither would have thought it possible. Giles achieved at least a half-smile and a return of his surface calm. “Perish the thought. I’m remarkably immune to your legendary attractions. But I would appreciate it if you would stay.”
Spike rolled back into the bed, silently accepting his extended nursemaid duty. The pair lay, unspeaking but companionable, a respectable distance apart.
Giles shut his eyes and finally relaxed. “Besides, you’re far too old for me.”
*
It was at 6.37am that Spike awoke to find his ready cock pressing against Giles’s hip.
The human warmth had evidently agreed with his body, even while his brain was out; he was ragingly hard, leaking slightly already with excitement. Not quite what the doctor ordered. He shifted slightly away before opening his eyes, only to find Giles gazing directly into his face. Hard to gauge his mood under all the bruising, but he didn’t exactly seem scandalised.
“Sorry mate. Vampires get the morning glory too.”
“Interesting fact, mystically speaking. Oddly enough, I don’t think the Watchers’ Diaries note it. Shall I take care of that for you?”
It was one of the most polite propositions Spike had ever had. And the hand job, while maybe not in his lifetime top ten, was warm, firm and to the point.
He relaxed back onto the pillows, feeling uncommonly at ease. “The great thing about men is that they seriously understand cock. Thanks, Watcher. Great way to start the day.”
Giles licked his sticky fingers. “Tastes like human.”
“Were you expecting more? Evil seed? Watch out, might be poisonous.”
“Didn’t mean that. Just curious. My first vampire, you know.”
“Not your first bloke.”
“Hardly.” Giles’s face, swollen into immobility, still managed to convey an air of smirk.
“Now, isn’t it time you returned the favour?” He shifted the covers to reveal his own eager erection.
As Spike wriggled down the bed to get a good look, and considered whether it was correct etiquette to blow a man in return for being tossed off on a first date, he realised that he’d managed to spend several hours now without lapsing into lonely despair. And that, in his current miserable unlife, was a precious thing.
On the whole, he thought the blow job was merited.
Title: Four Step Programme
Author: Bruttimabuoni
Pairing: Spike/Giles
Rating: Adult
Summary: post ‘The Gift’, Spike and Giles have reasons to get closer. More humour than angst or romance.
Prompt: an argument over an author/literary work, a touch of h/c. I hope it delivers!
It was during one of the Buffybot’s scheduled services that they really started to talk.
The Scoobies were badly stretched already, and in the end only they two were available to tackle a nasty outbreak of teen vampire cult. No one had yet said it, but everyone knew the gang was on the verge of breaking; that Buffy’s absence would be impossible to hide much longer.
In fact, they started to argue, after Spike slayed the lead vampire while criticising his decision to try to raise the demon Astr’ga’wrax. “Bonkers. That’s what you are. Nuts. Crackers. He’s a stone age demon. You need to buck your ideas up, be dragged kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat.”
The vampire dusted with a look of puzzlement which suggested he wasn’t altogether familiar with recent British fantasy comedy. Spike was too busy moving on to mop up the minions to appreciate the expression. Giles, however, was looking in the right direction as his own fight ended, and couldn’t help but comment.
“I can’t believe you quoted Terry Pratchett while killing. Do you really think that‘s clever?”
“Behind you!” Spike, skewering a couple of hefty specimens, pointed out Giles still needed to watch out for the smaller, less impressive minions who were now trying to join the fray. But he couldn’t resist continuing, “Why the hell not? Writing’s as good as any of your toffee-nosed Victorians. Bloody Trollope and his parso-”
Skinny Minions 2 through 6 attempted a mass attack. It was nearly pathetic, given their disorganisation, but a certain amount of concentration was required to disentangle the mess enough to slay them. It was only when they were down to the last three specimens that Giles managed to pick up the topic again.
“Don’t knock the Victorians, Spike. I’m pretty sure you were one.”
“’Sright. Was one. Not any more, and right glad of it. Gives me a special insight into the garbage they spouted.”
And then Skinny Minion #7, previously unobserved in the corner of the sepulchre, emerged with a small but hefty memorial sculpture and smashed it full into Giles’s face.
Spike dusted the minion at once, but Giles was too unconscious to appreciate it.
*
It was during the emergency first aid that they touched.
Touched more closely than since….come to think of it, since the emergency surgery to remove Spike’s tracker. A theme was emerging in their relationship, if either had cared to examine it.
Giles’s nose was probably not broken, and he’d begged off the hospital in favour of Spike’s tender care and some steri-strips on the worst of the cuts. The vampire was well practiced from patching himself up, and nobly overlooked his patient’s intermittent flinches as the cleaning and dressing wore on. He also dropped his usual line in scathing babble, figuring Giles had enough to deal with.
Spike considered the other’s man’s state of health. It had been a nasty blow, causing myriad small jagged tears in the skin. Bruises were going to be impressive and the split lip was already swollen, but his eyes were focusing and he didn’t appear concussed. An ice pack over half his face didn’t add to his dignity, admittedly, but it could, on the whole, have been a hell of a lot worse.
“Talk to me. It helps to be distracted, and as you’re all that’s on offer…” Giles’s mouth looked as if it would be grinning, if it didn’t hurt too much. Evidently Spike’d made the wrong call on the chatter.
He took the ungracious request as intended: “Charmed, my dear sir, positively charmed by your flattering invitation. Huh. Well, since you’re helplessly at my mercy, I’ll finish this evening’s lecture on why the high Victorian novel can suck my dick.” He settled back into the sofa. Far, far more comfy than the one in his crypt. He’d missed really well sprung upholstery. Must get some better cushions from the dump.
Unfortunately, he realised he’d already been silent long enough for Giles to lose focus. The Watcher’s eyes were getting that thousand-yard stare which meant the painkillers weren’t taking the edge off. Time for some lengthy and comfortingly pseudo-intellectual distraction.
“It’s the moralising, mainly. The bad get punished, the good prosper so long as they’re on the strait and narrow.”
And he was off. Emily’s Bronte’s habit of killing the dogs to make you weep; Trollope’s overfed clergy; Thackeray‘s uncritical endorsement of contemporary values in Henry Esmond; “Edward sodding Bulwer-Lytton and his endless wittering about the weather”; Dickens’s sacrifice of coherent plot to “appease his blithering fans’ every twitch of mood.” George Eliot, Mrs Gaskell, Thomas Hardy, all were fed in, chewed up and dispatched with relish. It had been ages since he’d had a chance to rant properly. Longer still since he’d chatted to someone who might recognise the name Charlotte M Yonge. He wasn’t about to skimp on the detail.
Giles listened silently, eyes fixed on Spike as the tumble of words flooded on. Occasional spasms of pain passed across his face, though some were perhaps caused more by stifled horror at the icons being demolished than by physical agony.
Spike was about to move on to the underappreciated virtues of fantasy fiction, with particular reference to the Pratchett oeuvre, when he suddenly smacked the sofa arm, literary critic‘s rage refreshed with a new complaint against the Victorians: “And then, and this is something they all bloody do, just when you know where you are with the predictable fates, for no good reason, they throw in a death. A young, beautiful, virtuous…girl…just… dies.”
The room was very silent for a while. Buffy was so strong in presence it felt as if she was sitting between them. As though they needed a reminder of her loss.
Then Giles shifted incautiously, dislodged the ice pack and broke the tension with a heartfelt, “Bugger. That hurt.”
Spike shrugged resignedly. “Get off to bed, you‘re not fit to be up. I’ll stay on the sofa, check you’re not in a coma later on.”
*
It was during one of his recurring nightmares that Giles woke to find a naked vampire’s arms around him.
“Giles? Giles! Rupert sodding Giles, wake up! I’m not a bloody nursemaid.”
“Wha-whu?”
“You were dreaming. It was loud.”
“Sorry.” The great British apology reflex was in full working order. But the rest of Giles couldn’t stop shaking.
“Well, now you’re awake, and obviously not comatose…” Spike let his arms drop, and half-rose to go back downstairs.
“Spike.“ Generally speaking, Giles didn’t get that much desperation into a monosyllable. It was enough to freeze the vampire in mid-motion. Abruptly wakened, Giles couldn‘t keep up his usual cool, civilised façade. He spoke from the gut, wrenching out the syllables: “There’s…there’s too much in my head. I dream of her. Of how we should have…” The words trailed off, hardly needing to be spoken. Spike knew all too well how those dreams felt.
“Stay.”
“Hunh?” Not one of Spike’s better lines. But he had no idea what was implied in that taut, whispered word.
Giles’s voice was bleak. “Please don’t leave me alone with all these thoughts. I can’t stand it.”
“This isn’t just a cunning plan to get me into your bed is it?” Flummoxed, Spike came up with the most uncomfortable remark possible. It was unexpectedly perfect - an opportunity for amusement when neither would have thought it possible. Giles achieved at least a half-smile and a return of his surface calm. “Perish the thought. I’m remarkably immune to your legendary attractions. But I would appreciate it if you would stay.”
Spike rolled back into the bed, silently accepting his extended nursemaid duty. The pair lay, unspeaking but companionable, a respectable distance apart.
Giles shut his eyes and finally relaxed. “Besides, you’re far too old for me.”
*
It was at 6.37am that Spike awoke to find his ready cock pressing against Giles’s hip.
The human warmth had evidently agreed with his body, even while his brain was out; he was ragingly hard, leaking slightly already with excitement. Not quite what the doctor ordered. He shifted slightly away before opening his eyes, only to find Giles gazing directly into his face. Hard to gauge his mood under all the bruising, but he didn’t exactly seem scandalised.
“Sorry mate. Vampires get the morning glory too.”
“Interesting fact, mystically speaking. Oddly enough, I don’t think the Watchers’ Diaries note it. Shall I take care of that for you?”
It was one of the most polite propositions Spike had ever had. And the hand job, while maybe not in his lifetime top ten, was warm, firm and to the point.
He relaxed back onto the pillows, feeling uncommonly at ease. “The great thing about men is that they seriously understand cock. Thanks, Watcher. Great way to start the day.”
Giles licked his sticky fingers. “Tastes like human.”
“Were you expecting more? Evil seed? Watch out, might be poisonous.”
“Didn’t mean that. Just curious. My first vampire, you know.”
“Not your first bloke.”
“Hardly.” Giles’s face, swollen into immobility, still managed to convey an air of smirk.
“Now, isn’t it time you returned the favour?” He shifted the covers to reveal his own eager erection.
As Spike wriggled down the bed to get a good look, and considered whether it was correct etiquette to blow a man in return for being tossed off on a first date, he realised that he’d managed to spend several hours now without lapsing into lonely despair. And that, in his current miserable unlife, was a precious thing.
On the whole, he thought the blow job was merited.