Two Brits, Scotch, And A Mistletoe
It was Christmas Eve and Wesley wondered whether it was just him or was time really flying by that quickly these days? He could have sworn he'd just survived another hellish Christmas dinner with his family. The thought of his parents sitting alone around a decorated table full of food and drinks made him shudder despite himself. Maybe he shouldn't have cancelled the reunion after all. What was one meeting per year anyway? He was a grown man, had shown on various occasions that he had actually even succeeded in establishing some sort of leadership within his workplace - that expression struck him as insanely ironic though because who, after all could call a huge evil law firm like W&H a regular workplace? - aiding Angel in fighting for the good cause, whatever "good" might mean.
Still, nothing could make him feel less self confident and miserable than spending a few hours in a room with his father. He immediately fell back into old habits: stuttering like an imbecile, dropping ancient prophecies on the floor, spilling his drink over his suit and generally behaving as if he hadn't saved the world from numerous apocalypses. This situation had become all too familiar to him over the years, the embarrassment he'd regularly put himself into was almost a ritual and only very hard to shake off.
This year, however, he had been determined to break the vicious circle. He'd called his mother and told her that an especially evil and brutal gang of zombies had threatened to cause havoc in LA around Christmas. He'd heard his father laughing sarcastically in the background while his mother repeated the words to him, mumbling something about "weak excuses" and "as if anyone would need HIM for help" - Wesley blanked out the words, reminding himself that he'd have to get through this, if only it meant being able to spend Christmas his way.
And what a way it was.
He entered the seedy looking bar in the late evening hours. Outside a sign had promised him "Killer Drinks for the Lonely" and at the time it seemed like an excellent idea. He made his way towards the back, found an empty table in a dark corner and squeezed himself into the seat. He didn't dare to take off his jacket at first, afraid any kind of movement could draw attention to him. And attention was the last thing he wanted tonight.
He leaned back, trying to relax and scanning the bar nonchalantly. It was rather quiet, with just a bunch of drunks lingering around the bar, obviously annoying the hell out of the middle aged waitress who patiently swatted off their advances.
The bar itself looked very shabby, most of the tables looked as if they hadn't been cleaned in days. Wesley didn't dare to touch the dirty surface in front of him, something telling him that he wouldn't be too fond of the sticky liquid attaching itself to his skin. Some chairs lay sprawled out on the floor, appearing to have been damaged in the course of a fight. Cheap, badly painted pictures of half naked women grazed the walls and - a very unnerved looking chubby man stared right into his eyes.
"What can I get you? Scotch?" Although it was posed as a question, the sentence came out more like a demand, something you should definitely not say "no" to. So Wesley nodded. Scotch wasn't so bad after all.
The chubby man walked away, dragged himself behind the counter and pulled out a bottle of Scotch from underneath the desk. Wesley thought, it mightn't be such a good idea to drink anything this man offered after all. For all he knew, it could be poisonous. Or worse, he could try to drug him, then steal all his money off him and throw him into the ocean.
Wesley chuckled to himself. Working for W&H certainly made him more paranoid than usual. But then again, it was understandable to get weary when you were faced with someone claiming to be your father who later turned out to be a cyborg. Somehow paranoia was a natural reaction these days.
The man returned with a dirty glass of Scotch. Or something that looked like it anyway. He more or less slammed it onto the table, making some of the liquid seep out of the glass in the process and pressed out a "There you go", before he turned back and joined the drunks who were still occupied with copping a feel off the waitress.
Wesley sighed and and mumbled a "Merry Christmas" under his breath before he cautiously sipped at the drink. He let out his tongue a little, opting to test the waters before giving in completely. The drink seemed fine enough and soon he was faced with an empty glass. He turned his attention to the bartender and once he'd established eyecontact, he pointed to his glass. Understanding, the bartender pulled out the bottle from underneath the bar and moved towards Wesley's table again. Without a second glance he poured in the Scotch and walked towards the counter again, leaving the bottle on Wesley's table.
Without another wink, Wesley downed the glass, and another ... and another. He hadn't really meant to get sloshed but once the alcohol had spread throughout his body and created a warm fuzzy feeling, he didn't regret it anymore.
He was about to pour the remnants of the bottle into his glass when he heard the slamming of the door. Taken aback at the sudden noise, he looked up in mid-pouring. At the sight of the new guest, the bottle almost slipped from his hand. No, it couldn't be. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image away but the moment he'd opened them again, a grinning and very solid looking Spike had seated himself opposite him.
"What's the matter, Wes? Seen a ghost?" Spike smirked, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with an expertise only someone who had smoked for over 100 years could.
"Don't look so glum, will you? And put that damn thing down." He was referring to the bottle which Wesley still held in midair and which suddenly reminded him of how foolish he must look. He let the bottle sink to the table and fixed Spike with a what he hoped calm expression.
"What are you doing here, Spike?" To his horror the words came out slurred and he immediately wished he hadn't said a thing.
Spike's face turned into a horrible grimace of amusement and belligerence. "Keeping an eye on you mate." He leaned closer, wrinkled his nose and added, "You surely reek of cheap Scotch. You won't bag any birds if you keep that up tonight."
Wesley grew agitated, fed up with the fact of never being able to have any time for himself. Wherever he went nowadays, it was either Angel brooding about, or Fred fawning about that assistant of hers, or Gunn giving him a smart talk, or ... Spike showing up uninvited.
"I'll have you know, Spike, that I don't plan on "bagging any birds" as you put it. Now it's very thoughtful of you to care, but, quite frankly, not tonight. Please leave."
Spike had kept his gaze on him throughout the whole talk, every now and then fighting off a smirk and failing miserably by the end of Wesley's speech.
"Quite frankly, mate, what if I told you I was just out for a drink myself?"
Wesley rolled his eyes in what he hoped was his usual trademark British annoyed roll of eyes, but something told him Spike wouldn't be too impressed.
"Then I'll leave." He went to get up hurriedly, a dizziness overcoming him and forcing him to rest against the wall. Spike let out a chuckle, "Good luck with that."
It only egged Wesley on to quickly leave the place. He stumbled from behind the table and leaned against the wall, waving at the bartender who immediately approached them.
He slammed a sheet of paper onto the table and barked out, "20$". Wesley fumbled in his pockets but couldn't find his wallet for the life of him. The bartender tapped his foot unnervingly and when Wesley looked up and into the grinning face of Spike, he knew he was in trouble.
"Spike, I seem to have forgotten my wallet. Could you borrow me the money? I'll give it back to you tomorrow."
Spike continued to grin aloofly, and pretending to think real hard, he said "Well, ... I'm, not sure I have that much on me. I could check if you stayed for another drink."
Wesley's mouth opened only to close again. He glanced a look at the bartender who now seemed more than just pissed off. One more drink. It couldn't be that bad. He told the bartender to bring them two glasses of Scotch and slowly moved back to his seat.
"See, what's the hurry? 'S not like you have plans elsewhere."
"No. Can we skip the small talk and go right to the awkward silence bit?" Anything was better than talking to Spike. Even awkward silences. Spike shrugged, "Whatever floats your boat, Wes."
He studied the blond vampire who fiddled with a cigarette and acted as if he checked out the interior of the bar with interest. It wasn't that Wesley didn't like Spike. Not exactly. Spike was just ... different. He knew how to handle Angel. Even Angelus was no problem to a certain extent. But with Spike he never knew where he stood. He knew so much about him through his studies at the Watcher's Council, yet also so damn little. Spike was a walking mystery. And it didn't help that sometimes Wesley thought he could see right through him. Could see behind the well built façade of determination and self confidence. Could see the insecure klutz behind the tough exterior. With Spike he always worried he could be exposed at any moment. And it was one of the reasons why he did his best to go out of his way to avoid Spike. All this time the vampire had already been in LA, they'd only been alone once or twice. Always in the confines of W&H. Not in a tiny fucked up bar at the bad end of town.
Against his better judgement, he stole a glance at the blond vampire, only to be rewarded with Spike's sneer. "You know, Wes. I really like the silence bit."
Wesley rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated breath. "Well then, let's keep it up. I quite enjoy it myself."
Spike smirked, another indication that he wouldn't back down that easily. "You are a bloke after my liking, Wes. I always thought I was the only acceptable Brit - I mean, look at Angel. Or the Royal Family for that matter." He grimaced and took a sip from his Scotch the bartender had just brought. Wesley couldn't help but chuckle at that. But the moment the laugh escaped him, he immediately coughed and tried to gain an air of seriousness again. It wouldn't be of any help to make Spike think he was actually an entertaining company.
"And Giles? The bloody watcher always used to be so damn stuffy and self righteous. I mean, what do you really expect from someone you catch singing cheesy pop songs?"
Somehow Wesley was put to another test and bit back a bout of laughter. The thought of Giles singing seemed terribly amusing.
"Or maybe it's just a watcher thing. I heard you were quite the stuffy type when you were a watcher." Spike arched his eyebrow, studying Wesley interestingly. Was this some kind of test? Wesley gathered his cool and replied calmly, "I'll have you know that I was never ... stuffy. Just ... thorough."
"You call help kidnapping a slayer behind the backs of the white hats thorough?" Spike asked with a gleeful look on his face. Wesley was surprised at the knowledge Spike was bringing on. He didn't like talking about his soiled past. Actually he liked to avoid anything that had to do with his past.
"Extreme situations call for extreme measures."
He wasn't going to let Spike win whatever game he was playing at.
"That's what I always used to say before ripping off the throats of people who were pissing me off." A soft expression replaced the wistful one, as if he'd just wallowed in nostalgic memories of his past. Wesley suddenly felt very sick. He couldn't pinpoint whether it was because of the images of a bloodthirsty Spike who drained body after body, or whether the drinks he had consumed in the course of the evening were finally taking an effect.
"You alright, mate? You look pale." Spike leaned over and put a hand on Wesley's shoulder. "I didn't know you were so twitchy about death stories." He squeezed the shoulder almost amicably.
Wesley leaned his head back against the wall and stated, "I think I need to rest. Will you take care of the bill?" He shrugged off Spike's hand and got up. His knees felt wobbly and a fuzzy feeling had spread in his head. Spike bounced from his chair and waved to the bartender. "We're leaving!" He pulled out some bills and threw them onto the table, before walking to Wesley and putting his hand on his arm.
"What are doing?" Wesley wasn't in the mood for this. Whatever it was.
"You don't seriously consider going home on your own ... like that."
"Why not?"
"Because ... you look worse than Angel on a happy day, probably feel like it too ... plus I don't want to be responsible if you get mugged on your way home. Angel would lay all the blame on me, that his favourite little friend had become fudder for the bad guys."
Wesley stared at Spike's mouth, amazed at the amount of words that spilled out, wishing he wouldn't keep up the talking if they were to walk home. He couldn't take any kind of conversation now. A headache as blinding as a car headlight spread through his head, accompanied by a piercing pain.
"Plus, wouldn't want to see an ugly scar on the ex watcher's pretty face,would we?"
Dragging him towards the exit, Wesley had registered what Spike had said but chalked it off to hallicunations.
They passed the dodgy end of town, with Spike clinging onto him like a puppy. Wesley briefly wondered who was backing up whom. But he had to admit that it had it's advantages walking home with the blond vampire. For a start suspicious looking people seemed to stay away from them, probably because of Spike's crouchy expression and snarl he let out whenever someone dared to approach them. And there was the little fact that it was actually quite entertaining to listen to Spike going on and on about the strangest things.
"Did you know that I actually went to a Sex Pistols gig in 77? I was about to bite the rotten singer when Dru burst in and claimed she'd seen a fairy outside. I tried to explain that I wasn't with her but he rushed off anyways. Pft ... the guy wasn't as cool as I had expected anyway. And, oh god, imagine having him around all the time, singing the same bloody tunes on and on. The Sex Pistols were so overrated anyhow. Now, the Ramones ... they were a real band. I wouldn't have minded biting the singer but I never had the luck to meet him. And, well, now that he is already dead it's too late. Have I told you that me and Dru had actually thought of moving to LA back in the 70ies? She was desperate to turn some actor bloke I can't remember the name of now, but then we got stuck in NYC and ..."
Wesley moved a hand to his temple, trying to knead the skin in the hope of toning down his headache. Part of him wished Spike would finally shut up, but then again, in a way he really liked listening to him.
" ... Xander never really liked me."
Huh? When had he changed the topic? Wesley tried to look unimpressed by the sudden change of mind and nodded half-heartedly.
"And do you know why? I know the real reason. Construction!Boy has never gotten over the fact that his precious little slayer friend didn't let him take a spin. You know what I mean?"
Wesley knew far too well what Spike meant and hoped he wouldn't engage in any more details. He could listen to him babble on about bad music, or killing sprees, or, hell, even Drusilla, but he didn't want to hear about his sexual antics.
"He could never get over the fact that she preferred cold comfort. Harris was always a right pest."
Wesley felt himself nod again, remembering how hostile he had been towards Wesley when Cordelia had showed interest in him. "I never warmed up to him either. Foolish, immature boy, that's what he was."
Spike cheered, "See, knew we'd find an agreement, eventually."
They finally made it to Wesley's apartment block. He dug in his pockets and fished out the keys. Spike took them out of his hand and fumbled with opening the door. The moment he had released his grip on Wesley's shoulder, Wesley felt as if someone had poured a bowl of water over his head. Even though Spike didn't radiate any warmth, he still felt much colder now, without the vampire's body pressed against his. He chalked the thoughts off to his drunkenness and followed Spike into the apartment once the door clicked open.
Wesley stumbled into the antechamber and almost lost his balance when he bumped into Spike. "What the hell ... why aren't you moving?"
Spike grinned, "I got in without an invite. I suppose there's a bonus for being a solid ghost-like vampire after all." Instead of worrying and thinking about the nearest weapon, Wesley offered a brief smile. "You should tell Angel. He'll be jealous." Spike's grin grew bigger and he asked excitedly, "Can I call him now? I can't leave it for tomorrow!" Wesley shook his head in an amused manner and Spike swatted him on his back. "Just joking. I will tell him first thing tomorrow morning. His day is so going to go downhill from there." Wesley forgot about his inhibitions and smirked, "Do that. But wait until he's assigned me for a new case - then I can leave and won't have to listen to his complains for the rest of the day. Gunn can do the job."
They laughed, facing each other only mere inches from the door angle. Wesley's gaze remained on Spike as he pondered whether to invite him for a beer. Or tea, as his headache painfully reminded him. His indecision was solved with Spike moving towards the door.
"I'll be off then."
Wesley stood rooted to the place, unsure of what to say next.
"Well, see you tomorrow, I suppose."
Spike was almost out the door when he suddenly turned back.
"I've forgotten one thing."
"Wha ..." Before Wesley could utter the question, Spike had lunched towards him, pressing him against the wall. Without warning, he felt cool wet lips on his, enveloping him in an engaging kiss. It was only brief and the moment Wesley had intended to return it, Spike's lips were already gone.
The next thing he realised was Spike walking out the door, waving sheepishly and disappearing into the night, his leather coat flaunting behind him.
Wesley stared open-mouthed into the dark, only slowly releasing himself from the wall and moving to close the door. He then leaned against the solid door and drew a hand up to his lips, tracing the spot Spike's lips had touched. He looked to the place where Spike had surprised him and noticed a fresh mistletoe hanging from the coat hook.
"The bastard."
Wesley went over, picked it up and stuffed it into his pockets. It wasn't like he couldn't play the game just as well. First thing tomorrow Spike was in for a round of revenge. And the mistletoe would just come in handy.