Fic: A Night Out, Giles/Spike/Wesley, PG-13 (FRT)
Title: A Night Out
Author: lostgirlslair
Pairing: Giles/Spike/Wesley
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The boys proceed to the logical conclusion.
Spoilers: Set post "Chosen"
Feedback and Concrit adored: lostgirlslair @ yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All things BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
Big, huge, massive thanks to mirielle719 for the wonderful beta magic! This is for maleslashminis threesome round and katekat1010, who wanted Giles/Spike and either Xander or Wesley and who wanted comfort without angst. Well, a little angst slipped in, sweetie, but it's just a tiny bit, I promise! I hope you like it!
Rupert Giles ---
Rupert turned up the collar of his coat, hoping to shut out the chill wind as well as the icy drizzle. London in February almost made him long for Sunnydale. Of course, a few moments later, when he reached his destination, he came to his senses.
The pub was small, tucked away at the back of an old building, on a street that now comprised mostly small, family-run shops. The few people about were all hurrying somewhere or other. It hadn't always been that way. Rupert remembered a time when music blared loud enough to be heard from the street. Back then, one was more likely to see young men and women covered in glitter, their clothes so bright they lit up the shadows with reflected moonlight.
Snorting and shaking his head over his own vague nostalgia, Rupert caught sight of the others, tucked away in a corner booth. Pausing only to get a pint from the bartender, he slid in next to Wesley.
"Hey, there you are." Wesley scooted over to give him room and Rupert waved an apology to both him and Spike.
"Sorry, there was a minor emergency."
Both of them straightened, speaking together. "What happened?"
"It was nothing. A clerical emergency." Rupert grinned as both Spike and Wesley visibly lost interest.
"It's too damn quiet, anymore," Spike muttered, halfway to pouting. He picked at a spot on the table with black lacquered nails.
"Well, there was that Malvoy demon scare a few weeks ago," Wesley said, a thoughtful look on his face. "That was interesting."
"For you, maybe. All the damn thing wanted to do was talk. Not one decent bit of action all week. The Slayers have all the fun."
Rupert shook his head, grinning. "Well, I could send you to Africa. You could help Xander train his latest group."
"Oh, not on your life." Spike snorted, faking a shudder. "It's not the training I mind, but all that sun? And with Harris?"
Wesley and Rupert exchanged a glance, and Wesley took up the conversation. "Well, there's always South America with Willow. You like her, and she could use a hand."
"Red's fine, but that Kennedy bint's got a stick up her arse. Besides, Willow's way too interested in the whole, dead twice, not a vampire anymore, deal." Spike gave another shudder. Unable to keep a straight face, Rupert began to list the places Spike could be sent to, but his own laughter got in the way.
"Hey! I'm having a real crisis, here, mate. What are you chuckling at?" Spike threw a wadded-up napkin, which hit Rupert on the nose and bounced off into Wesley's beer.
"Now that's just unsanitary," Wesley said, though he had to speak around his own laughter.
"What? What are you two laughin' at?"
Rupert shook his head. "You do this every week, Spike. You piss and moan about being bored when you know that everything picks up after the weekend and by tomorrow you'll be elbow deep in ichor and intestines."
Spike nodded, visibly perking up. "You know, you're right, it does pick up once all the little Slayers are back to school and work."
Wesley and Rupert shared another glance and Rupert shook his head. God, it felt good to laugh. It felt as if years had passed since he'd been able to let go that way. "My round?"
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce ---
By the time they'd wound down at the pub, Wesley knew he'd had too much to drink, which was both frustrating and exhilarating. Since his near-death experience with Vail, Wesley had tried not to push himself too hard, and he was damn well sick of it.
There was every chance that that was the alcohol talking; they'd switched to Scotch halfway through. But the stirrings had started long before he'd ever put a pint to his lips.
His life in London was safe, contained, boring. "We're not calling it a night already? I realize I'm not as old as either of you, but . . ."
That got him twin glares from Spike and Rupert, and Wesley had to stifle a giggle over how similar they looked just then. Not their features, obviously, but their expressions: one cocked eyebrow apiece, both of their heads tilted, and those glares.
"I think that was a challenge," Rupert finally said, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.
"I say we go back to my place and drink until Wesley's on the floor unconscious. Then tell the whole Council how Percy can't hold his liquor anymore."
"That's a fine idea," Wesley answered before Rupert could, pushing between the two of them and swaggering toward Spike's apartment. "Except that I plan for you both to be regretting your bravado come morning."
"Cheeky little bastard, isn't he?" Rupert said, and Wesley wished he could see his friend's expression.
"Watch it, Rupes, he's up to something. Maybe you like waking up with horns and hooves once in a while, but I look damn good just as I am."
"What?" Wesley asked, turning to give Spike a puzzled looked. "Rupert with horns and hooves? Not a good look, I must say."
"Well, first, I think we're safe. Wes is far too drunk to cast that spell without plenty of advance preparation. Second, it's not a very interesting story." The look on his face said differently. Wesley thought Rupert might actually be blushing, which in and of itself was highly interesting. Wesley didn't think he'd ever seen the phenomenon before. It had to be studied, catalogued. Wesley couldn't fully stifle a giggle at the thought.
"It all started when I was heading back to my crypt--"
"If you're going to tell the story, don't you think you ought to start at the beginning?" Rupert cut in, though his blush had risen. Wesley found it fascinating.
"This is the beginning. I'm telling it from my side," Spike said, nearly tipping over when he overbalanced while turning to give Rupert a mock-glare. "Now shut it. You're ruinin' my narrative flow."
Both Wesley and Rupert stopped walking. Wesley could feel his own eyebrow rising. He glanced over and wondered if he and Rupert were wearing the same expression, the way Rupert and Spike had.
"I told you that writing course was a bad idea." Though Rupert's tone was dry, he was smiling. Spike shot Rupert a two-fingered salute, but he wore a smile as well. Rupert and Spike started moving again, but Wesley was a step behind them.
He watched Rupert push Spike a little when Spike mentioned something about mucus and Wesley couldn't remember the last time things had been so easy.
Spike ---
Spike liked his new place. It wasn't a crypt, warehouse, or office building, but just a small flat above a butcher shop. No one else wanted to rent it because the smell of blood sometimes leaked upward. Despite his heartbeat, his pulse, his body warmth, Spike found it comforting.
Wesley and Rupert had been there before. A month or so ago, Spike had experienced his first trip to a hospital in . . . well, ever, actually, if one only considered the trips for his own injuries. He'd broken into blood supplies, occasionally resorted to snatching a kid for Dru . . .
Spike pushed those thoughts away, tossing his coat at the coat rack and ignoring it when it fell to the floor instead. He'd stashed away a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch for just such an occasion, meaning for when he was too drunk to care about parting with it.
Wesley was still giggling over the thought of Rupert as a Fyarl. Rupert's pretended affront only made Wesley laugh harder, which was, Spike knew, what Rupert was aiming for.
Rupert retrieved glasses out of Spike's tiny kitchen while Spike dug out the bottle; soon they'd all settled around the dining room table.
"So how are we doing this?" Rupert asked, slouching in his chair in a way that was only a little bit about drunk, but a lot about relaxed. Spike liked seeing that in the normally straight-backed, upright Watcher. There was a slight growl in his voice, and he'd narrowed his eyes at Wesley, all part of the façade. Rupert was good at those.
"And why not on the couch?" Wesley asked, as he reached out for the glass Spike had poured him.
"Want to drink you under an actual table," Spike said. "You won't hit your head when you wake up tomorrow."
"How thoughtful," Wesley said, and though he tried to glare, it came out as something else entirely. Spike looked away, into his own glass and downed it quickly. If he wasn't careful, he'd ruin it all. That thought, too, he shoved away. "But I'm afraid you and Rupert will be sleeping under the table tonight, and worrying about head in the morning."
Spike froze halfway through bringing his second glass of Scotch to his lips. He had absolutely no control over the fact that his smile had become a leer. Rupert lost it, giggling like a schoolboy, a hand pressed to his lips in a futile attempt to keep the laughter from spilling out.
Wesley blinked at both of them, only then seeming to realize what he'd said. He threw his head back and laughed and Spike had never seen that before, never seen Wesley so carefree.
The silence that followed wasn't funny at all, though. It was awkward, tense in a way that things hadn't been all night. An empty silence Spike might not even have noticed, but this was crammed too full of things; it drew attention. Even Spike couldn't think of a snappy line to break it, and if he did, would all those things go flying about, out in the open, like a piñata. Would breaking it mean losing the candy?
Together ---
"I didn't mean to imply that the two of you . . ." Wesley let the words trail off, pushing his empty glass back to Spike to be refilled.
Rupert did the same. If ever there was a time to be too drunk to remember a conversation, he thought now might just be it. He felt suddenly, depressingly, sober.
"You didn't," he said, about to deny that such a thing had ever even crossed his mind.
"No, he did," Spike said, voice low as he slid Wesley's glass back to him. Spike seemed to be focusing an inordinate amount of effort on getting the Scotch into the glass and Rupert didn't think it was because Spike was drunk. "S'not like I mind, though."
Rupert blinked, his eyes flicking up to get a better look at Spike's face. Spike's expression was blank, purposely so if Rupert was any judge of character at all. Damn it, when had things gotten so difficult? There had been a time, long ago, when he would have already had both Spike and Wesley stripped and heading toward Spike's bed. Long ago, when things mattered less. Or, at least, when he'd have rather had vital organs punctured than admit how very much things did matter.
Bugger it.
"That's good to know, as I'm certainly not protesting." Both Spike and Wesley looked at him then, and Rupert ignored the urge to duck his head, to not meet their eyes. When had he become so damned timid? He met Spike's stare, refusing to look away.
Spike's mouth lifted into a tiny smile, his head tilting almost imperceptibly toward Wesley. "It's not right, though, is it? The two of us?"
Rupert smiled then, surprised and pleased to see his own thoughts reflected on Spike's face. "No. It's not right."
"Don't." Wesley's voice almost shook. Rupert looked to him, his fears reviving. Wesley stared down into his glass, his hands wrapped around it so tight his knuckles had gone white.
Rupert darted a quick look at Spike and found he wasn't the only one suddenly holding his breath.
Wesley looked up, glanced between them, and then looked back to his Scotch, lifting one shoulder in a desultory shrug. "Don't talk yourselves out of it. It's too important. A chance at . . . anything is too important. That's all I . . . You two need to . . . talk, I'll show myself out."
Wesley stood without looking at either of them. Rupert and Spike shared a startled glance before they too stood. Rupert moved to block the door, to keep Wesley from leaving.
Wesley did look up at him then, and his eyes were so old it made Rupert's heart twist. He expected them to let him walk out and tomorrow, at work, the Wesley that Rupert had known over the last year wouldn't be in evidence. In part, Rupert was used to that; Wesley was never the same person around others as he was on these jaunts, never the same person when someone other than Rupert or Spike was present. Still, Rupert could see this wasn't the same thing at all. Wesley looking at him out of those bleak eyes reminded him far too much of the first few months after Wesley came to London from LA.
"He's right," Rupert said, nodding to Spike, who stood behind Wesley. "It's not right, the two of us." Wesley opened his mouth to argue, but Rupert cut him off. "It should be three."
Wesley blinked, shook his head, and then blinked again. Rupert didn't know what more to say, how to explain it. Even he wasn't entirely sure how it had happened.
Then Spike cut through it all, the words, everything. He stepped up behind Wesley and laid his chin on Wesley's shoulder, turning his lips toward Wesley's neck. Wesley stood stock-still.
"Rupert's right. Two isn't right, but three--" Instead of explaining, Spike kissed Wesley's neck, sliding his lips up toward Wesley's ear.
Wesley's eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting, his chest moving in rapid pants as the stiffness left him. Rupert didn't think he'd get a better invitation. He stepped forward, sliding his hands down Wesley's arms until Wesley opened his eyes. Rupert leaned in and found Wesley leaning toward him as well, felt Spike's hand slip around Wesley to rest on his hip. He couldn't remember the last time it had been so easy.
Author: lostgirlslair
Pairing: Giles/Spike/Wesley
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The boys proceed to the logical conclusion.
Spoilers: Set post "Chosen"
Feedback and Concrit adored: lostgirlslair @ yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All things BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
Big, huge, massive thanks to mirielle719 for the wonderful beta magic! This is for maleslashminis threesome round and katekat1010, who wanted Giles/Spike and either Xander or Wesley and who wanted comfort without angst. Well, a little angst slipped in, sweetie, but it's just a tiny bit, I promise! I hope you like it!
Rupert Giles ---
Rupert turned up the collar of his coat, hoping to shut out the chill wind as well as the icy drizzle. London in February almost made him long for Sunnydale. Of course, a few moments later, when he reached his destination, he came to his senses.
The pub was small, tucked away at the back of an old building, on a street that now comprised mostly small, family-run shops. The few people about were all hurrying somewhere or other. It hadn't always been that way. Rupert remembered a time when music blared loud enough to be heard from the street. Back then, one was more likely to see young men and women covered in glitter, their clothes so bright they lit up the shadows with reflected moonlight.
Snorting and shaking his head over his own vague nostalgia, Rupert caught sight of the others, tucked away in a corner booth. Pausing only to get a pint from the bartender, he slid in next to Wesley.
"Hey, there you are." Wesley scooted over to give him room and Rupert waved an apology to both him and Spike.
"Sorry, there was a minor emergency."
Both of them straightened, speaking together. "What happened?"
"It was nothing. A clerical emergency." Rupert grinned as both Spike and Wesley visibly lost interest.
"It's too damn quiet, anymore," Spike muttered, halfway to pouting. He picked at a spot on the table with black lacquered nails.
"Well, there was that Malvoy demon scare a few weeks ago," Wesley said, a thoughtful look on his face. "That was interesting."
"For you, maybe. All the damn thing wanted to do was talk. Not one decent bit of action all week. The Slayers have all the fun."
Rupert shook his head, grinning. "Well, I could send you to Africa. You could help Xander train his latest group."
"Oh, not on your life." Spike snorted, faking a shudder. "It's not the training I mind, but all that sun? And with Harris?"
Wesley and Rupert exchanged a glance, and Wesley took up the conversation. "Well, there's always South America with Willow. You like her, and she could use a hand."
"Red's fine, but that Kennedy bint's got a stick up her arse. Besides, Willow's way too interested in the whole, dead twice, not a vampire anymore, deal." Spike gave another shudder. Unable to keep a straight face, Rupert began to list the places Spike could be sent to, but his own laughter got in the way.
"Hey! I'm having a real crisis, here, mate. What are you chuckling at?" Spike threw a wadded-up napkin, which hit Rupert on the nose and bounced off into Wesley's beer.
"Now that's just unsanitary," Wesley said, though he had to speak around his own laughter.
"What? What are you two laughin' at?"
Rupert shook his head. "You do this every week, Spike. You piss and moan about being bored when you know that everything picks up after the weekend and by tomorrow you'll be elbow deep in ichor and intestines."
Spike nodded, visibly perking up. "You know, you're right, it does pick up once all the little Slayers are back to school and work."
Wesley and Rupert shared another glance and Rupert shook his head. God, it felt good to laugh. It felt as if years had passed since he'd been able to let go that way. "My round?"
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce ---
By the time they'd wound down at the pub, Wesley knew he'd had too much to drink, which was both frustrating and exhilarating. Since his near-death experience with Vail, Wesley had tried not to push himself too hard, and he was damn well sick of it.
There was every chance that that was the alcohol talking; they'd switched to Scotch halfway through. But the stirrings had started long before he'd ever put a pint to his lips.
His life in London was safe, contained, boring. "We're not calling it a night already? I realize I'm not as old as either of you, but . . ."
That got him twin glares from Spike and Rupert, and Wesley had to stifle a giggle over how similar they looked just then. Not their features, obviously, but their expressions: one cocked eyebrow apiece, both of their heads tilted, and those glares.
"I think that was a challenge," Rupert finally said, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.
"I say we go back to my place and drink until Wesley's on the floor unconscious. Then tell the whole Council how Percy can't hold his liquor anymore."
"That's a fine idea," Wesley answered before Rupert could, pushing between the two of them and swaggering toward Spike's apartment. "Except that I plan for you both to be regretting your bravado come morning."
"Cheeky little bastard, isn't he?" Rupert said, and Wesley wished he could see his friend's expression.
"Watch it, Rupes, he's up to something. Maybe you like waking up with horns and hooves once in a while, but I look damn good just as I am."
"What?" Wesley asked, turning to give Spike a puzzled looked. "Rupert with horns and hooves? Not a good look, I must say."
"Well, first, I think we're safe. Wes is far too drunk to cast that spell without plenty of advance preparation. Second, it's not a very interesting story." The look on his face said differently. Wesley thought Rupert might actually be blushing, which in and of itself was highly interesting. Wesley didn't think he'd ever seen the phenomenon before. It had to be studied, catalogued. Wesley couldn't fully stifle a giggle at the thought.
"It all started when I was heading back to my crypt--"
"If you're going to tell the story, don't you think you ought to start at the beginning?" Rupert cut in, though his blush had risen. Wesley found it fascinating.
"This is the beginning. I'm telling it from my side," Spike said, nearly tipping over when he overbalanced while turning to give Rupert a mock-glare. "Now shut it. You're ruinin' my narrative flow."
Both Wesley and Rupert stopped walking. Wesley could feel his own eyebrow rising. He glanced over and wondered if he and Rupert were wearing the same expression, the way Rupert and Spike had.
"I told you that writing course was a bad idea." Though Rupert's tone was dry, he was smiling. Spike shot Rupert a two-fingered salute, but he wore a smile as well. Rupert and Spike started moving again, but Wesley was a step behind them.
He watched Rupert push Spike a little when Spike mentioned something about mucus and Wesley couldn't remember the last time things had been so easy.
Spike ---
Spike liked his new place. It wasn't a crypt, warehouse, or office building, but just a small flat above a butcher shop. No one else wanted to rent it because the smell of blood sometimes leaked upward. Despite his heartbeat, his pulse, his body warmth, Spike found it comforting.
Wesley and Rupert had been there before. A month or so ago, Spike had experienced his first trip to a hospital in . . . well, ever, actually, if one only considered the trips for his own injuries. He'd broken into blood supplies, occasionally resorted to snatching a kid for Dru . . .
Spike pushed those thoughts away, tossing his coat at the coat rack and ignoring it when it fell to the floor instead. He'd stashed away a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch for just such an occasion, meaning for when he was too drunk to care about parting with it.
Wesley was still giggling over the thought of Rupert as a Fyarl. Rupert's pretended affront only made Wesley laugh harder, which was, Spike knew, what Rupert was aiming for.
Rupert retrieved glasses out of Spike's tiny kitchen while Spike dug out the bottle; soon they'd all settled around the dining room table.
"So how are we doing this?" Rupert asked, slouching in his chair in a way that was only a little bit about drunk, but a lot about relaxed. Spike liked seeing that in the normally straight-backed, upright Watcher. There was a slight growl in his voice, and he'd narrowed his eyes at Wesley, all part of the façade. Rupert was good at those.
"And why not on the couch?" Wesley asked, as he reached out for the glass Spike had poured him.
"Want to drink you under an actual table," Spike said. "You won't hit your head when you wake up tomorrow."
"How thoughtful," Wesley said, and though he tried to glare, it came out as something else entirely. Spike looked away, into his own glass and downed it quickly. If he wasn't careful, he'd ruin it all. That thought, too, he shoved away. "But I'm afraid you and Rupert will be sleeping under the table tonight, and worrying about head in the morning."
Spike froze halfway through bringing his second glass of Scotch to his lips. He had absolutely no control over the fact that his smile had become a leer. Rupert lost it, giggling like a schoolboy, a hand pressed to his lips in a futile attempt to keep the laughter from spilling out.
Wesley blinked at both of them, only then seeming to realize what he'd said. He threw his head back and laughed and Spike had never seen that before, never seen Wesley so carefree.
The silence that followed wasn't funny at all, though. It was awkward, tense in a way that things hadn't been all night. An empty silence Spike might not even have noticed, but this was crammed too full of things; it drew attention. Even Spike couldn't think of a snappy line to break it, and if he did, would all those things go flying about, out in the open, like a piñata. Would breaking it mean losing the candy?
Together ---
"I didn't mean to imply that the two of you . . ." Wesley let the words trail off, pushing his empty glass back to Spike to be refilled.
Rupert did the same. If ever there was a time to be too drunk to remember a conversation, he thought now might just be it. He felt suddenly, depressingly, sober.
"You didn't," he said, about to deny that such a thing had ever even crossed his mind.
"No, he did," Spike said, voice low as he slid Wesley's glass back to him. Spike seemed to be focusing an inordinate amount of effort on getting the Scotch into the glass and Rupert didn't think it was because Spike was drunk. "S'not like I mind, though."
Rupert blinked, his eyes flicking up to get a better look at Spike's face. Spike's expression was blank, purposely so if Rupert was any judge of character at all. Damn it, when had things gotten so difficult? There had been a time, long ago, when he would have already had both Spike and Wesley stripped and heading toward Spike's bed. Long ago, when things mattered less. Or, at least, when he'd have rather had vital organs punctured than admit how very much things did matter.
Bugger it.
"That's good to know, as I'm certainly not protesting." Both Spike and Wesley looked at him then, and Rupert ignored the urge to duck his head, to not meet their eyes. When had he become so damned timid? He met Spike's stare, refusing to look away.
Spike's mouth lifted into a tiny smile, his head tilting almost imperceptibly toward Wesley. "It's not right, though, is it? The two of us?"
Rupert smiled then, surprised and pleased to see his own thoughts reflected on Spike's face. "No. It's not right."
"Don't." Wesley's voice almost shook. Rupert looked to him, his fears reviving. Wesley stared down into his glass, his hands wrapped around it so tight his knuckles had gone white.
Rupert darted a quick look at Spike and found he wasn't the only one suddenly holding his breath.
Wesley looked up, glanced between them, and then looked back to his Scotch, lifting one shoulder in a desultory shrug. "Don't talk yourselves out of it. It's too important. A chance at . . . anything is too important. That's all I . . . You two need to . . . talk, I'll show myself out."
Wesley stood without looking at either of them. Rupert and Spike shared a startled glance before they too stood. Rupert moved to block the door, to keep Wesley from leaving.
Wesley did look up at him then, and his eyes were so old it made Rupert's heart twist. He expected them to let him walk out and tomorrow, at work, the Wesley that Rupert had known over the last year wouldn't be in evidence. In part, Rupert was used to that; Wesley was never the same person around others as he was on these jaunts, never the same person when someone other than Rupert or Spike was present. Still, Rupert could see this wasn't the same thing at all. Wesley looking at him out of those bleak eyes reminded him far too much of the first few months after Wesley came to London from LA.
"He's right," Rupert said, nodding to Spike, who stood behind Wesley. "It's not right, the two of us." Wesley opened his mouth to argue, but Rupert cut him off. "It should be three."
Wesley blinked, shook his head, and then blinked again. Rupert didn't know what more to say, how to explain it. Even he wasn't entirely sure how it had happened.
Then Spike cut through it all, the words, everything. He stepped up behind Wesley and laid his chin on Wesley's shoulder, turning his lips toward Wesley's neck. Wesley stood stock-still.
"Rupert's right. Two isn't right, but three--" Instead of explaining, Spike kissed Wesley's neck, sliding his lips up toward Wesley's ear.
Wesley's eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting, his chest moving in rapid pants as the stiffness left him. Rupert didn't think he'd get a better invitation. He stepped forward, sliding his hands down Wesley's arms until Wesley opened his eyes. Rupert leaned in and found Wesley leaning toward him as well, felt Spike's hand slip around Wesley to rest on his hip. He couldn't remember the last time it had been so easy.