Familiarity
In retrospect, one could argue that it should have been the knock that tipped him off. That let him know that something wasn't quite right. Who knocks on crypt entrances at three in the morning, whether they're aware that someone has made a cozy home inside or not? Demons weren't inclined to knock if they didn't have to, and no vampires were feeling friendly enough toward him to pop in for a visit these days. No humans came by these days except the Slayer, who was infinitely more likely to kick the damn door in than knock on it.
So. It wasn't too comforting that his danger radar didn't ping at all at this. He was slipping in his old age. Time to ship him off to the Sunnydale Vamp Retirement Home. If any town had one, it was this place. This damned place.
No, he just ambled over to the door, swung it right open and held it there to let the man outside come in, because the man knew Spike's name and he smelled like whiskey and Angel and that wasn't something Spike was going to say no to, not even on his best nights.
This drunken stranger ... but was he a stranger? There was a familiar air about him but Spike never put much stock in familiarity that wasn't borne out of solid memories. If he couldn't recall exactly where he'd seen someone before, then it was just as likely he was remembering vaguely the face of someone whose throat he'd ripped out in Paris in 1942.
Either way, this man in his home turned a meandering circle, eyes wandering blearily over the crypt before settling back on Spike. Widening slightly then, as though this hadn't been quite where he'd meant to be when he turned around. With a deep breath, the maybe-stranger seemed to shake off his nerves, and he took a step forward.
"William the Bloody?"
Now wait just one goddamned ... "Who wants to know?" Wheels clicked in Spike's head; you had to look at the facts before you jumped, so here facts were and he was looking and ... "No, no, let me take a guess. You came from Angel."
Hard swallow, quick nod.
"For, or only from?"
"Only from. He'd be ... he wouldn't ... he'd be unhappy. If he knew that I was here."
Well. Wasn't that a shame, then. "That the case? Then settle in, mate, make yourself at home." Spike nodded toward his chair, and swung himself up to sit on the coffin. "What'd you say your name was?"
"I didn't." He didn't sit, either, only took another step toward Spike, more cautiously this time. "My name is Wesley."
Spike rolled the name over in his mind, on his tongue, "Wesley ... " because again it was familiar but he just could place ...
A poke in the chest snapped him out of his reverie.
"What the ... ?"
Another jab.
"Bloody hell! Quit that! Damned annoying ponce, I can see why Angel held onto you. Two of you get on grandly, I'd wager."
"You can't hurt me," Wesley said, staring in fascination at the tip of his finger pressed over Spike's heart. There was only the edge of a question in the words and something that sounded like irony, just a little blacker than anything in an Alanis Morissette song. "I could do whatever I want and you can't hurt me," he repeated softly.
Spike, as sometimes happened, took a little too long getting the point of that last statement, and before he could manage a witty reply, Wesley had insinuated his hips between Spike's carelessly spread thighs and pressed their mouths together.
Oh.
Oh, now this was sweet.
Not because of the kiss, that was awkward enough, not just because of ... well, who and where and when and why but also how. Rushing didn't seem to be Wesley's natural pace, but his hands and mouth were moving fast and hard against Spike, like he was trying to make this what it should be instead of what it was. But the truth was, this was the kind of thing that should have never been at all.
It was sweet like Spike couldn't believe that Wesley expected to be hurt for this, that Spike would hurt him if he could. Christ, now he really knew why Angel kept him around. Must be nice for Peaches to finally have someone more emotionally fucked up than himself around.
Or maybe ...
Not allowing himself to be slow on the uptake again, Spike let his mind wander while Wesley licked his throat. Maybe it was just that.
Spike couldn't hurt him.
Angel couldn't do anything but.
He might have sympathized one hundred years ago. Now it was nothing but goddamned amusing.
So when Wesley said "fuck me", he did and when Wesley said "harder", he did and when Wesley called him Angel's name, it didn't bother him in the slightest.
It wasn't going to be about the sex, he knew that already. Fucking something warm was always pleasing enough, and even with this bloody chip in his head, even if he wasn't the direct cause, the man beneath him was in enough pain to keep him happy.
It was going to be about taking something sweet away from Angel. The only time it had ever come to him willingly, not had to be dragged away bleeding and screaming. The universe was a nice place, every now and then.
When Wesley turned around in the crypt entranceway and stared at him with cold eyes and demanded that he "not say a word about it, not to him, not to anyone", it was all Spike could do to keep a straight face and give his word. How was it, he wondered, that anyone could still believe that it meant anything at all.
Humans believed what they wanted to believe, and if Wesley wanted to believe that Angel would never know about it, Spike was more than happy to let him.
Spike wouldn't say a word to Angel, that was true. He wouldn't have to. Poncey bugger was a pain in the ass, to say the least. But he'd always had a good nose on him.