Slashed Sonnet Sequence

"Legacy"
Spike/Wesley
Longer Ficlet


Two things are real in Wesley's mind: the touch of Spike's newly corporeal skin, and the fact that he tried to kill his father.

Or not.

He finds himself confused, and so he goes where answers may be found. Not his library, nor his department.

He goes to Spike.

He waits outside the door of the vampire's new suite, hidden deep inside Wolfram & Hart's residential floors; crouching on his heels, he listens at the lock for signs of any unlife within. Once in every so often he unconsciously brushes his fingers across his lips. They're too warm – they should be chilled, cooled by the touch of his lover's mouth.

This feels far too familiar, yet wrong – waiting outside, wanting to be let in – or is it inside, out? He's not sure. Is he feverish? He touches his forehead, his cheeks, but can't tell. He seems far too warm all over. He should be cooler, the heat of his body leached out from tangling his limbs with Spike's own.

He leans a little closer to the cold, pressed plastic of the door. Spike is inside, he's sure of it. He promised Wesley that he would be there. And yes, he knows better than to trust Spike's word, but when it was given so, gasped against his lips while their mouths moved desperately over each other, while Wesley stroked deep within him and Spike's hands groped him rudely and deeply, while...

Wesley gives himself a small shake. He laughs a little.

Is he sweating? He's far too hot.

Perhaps he should get up, go look for an aspirin or two. Bring his temperature down.

Ahh! There; he hears movemensideside the suite. Water. The shower running. Wesley relaxes a bit, a smile curving his lips. He can imagine what Spike must look like, with silvery drops of steaming water trailing down through his hair, his chest, his legs...

He frowns. Spike will be warmed by that water. That isn't right. He should bring shivers to the one that touches him. Shouldn't he? Yes...

Wesley believes he understands why vampires are made cooler than men. They must be preserved. Their demons inspire them with the ferocity of liquid nitrogen, to freeze their beauty in time. Forever perfect and unchanging.

The buttons of his shirt need undoing. Wolfram & Hart keeps the general thermostat set far too high. There, there's relief, sticky cotton loosened from its grip at his throat and wrists. He flaps the garment against his ribs, sighing happily at the slight coolness he generates.

The shower stops running. Good. Spike will be stepping out now, perhaps wrapping a towel loosely about his hips, more likely striding bold and naked, water droplets condensing and drying on his skin. Freezing into invisible snowflakes, riming him with frost the eye cannot see as the shower's warmth drifts away and leaves him as he should be. Cold and perfect.

Would that he'd come to his door and let Wesley in. He must hear, must know that he's waiting without.

Does he hesitate? He should not. This is to be the gladdest night yet of their time together. He promised, not twenty-four full hours ago. Vowed that he'd share his beauty with Wesley.

To keep it all for himself would be selfish. He knows Spike knows that. So he read between the lines of his lover's promises, and understood what he truly meant.

Tonight, Spike will turn him. Take away this heat, the ever-searing, scorching burn of blood surging beneath his skin. Gently draw away and swallow his need to blush with embarrassment, redden in shame. He has had a bellyful and too much of that during his life.

Spike will make him cold and pure.

He'll take him by the hand and make things right.

The hand... Wesley's fist clenches and unclenches. There's no mark to be seen, but he can still feel the gunpowder burns from when... from when he shot... that machine... his *father*...

He needs Spike's touch more than water, more than air. More than his life, useless thing that it is.

Ah – there – at last – footsteps. Pad, pad, pad across the carpet, towards the door! Wes's ears are bat-keen tonight, that he can hear this. He tenses in anticipation, looks up hopefully through the points of his sweat-dampened hair. Will it open? Will he be let into the light at last?

It does. Wesley cannot help but laugh for delight as the door swings wide and Spike looks down on him from so far above.

"Wes? Love?" Sweet words, roughly purred from a curving throat. "What are you doing on the floor?"

Wesley has no reply, not one that can be voiced. He reaches up his powder-burned hand for Spike to take.

Blessed coolness envelops his fingers. "Stand up, then. Come and kiss me, eh?" Spike tries to pull him up. "Wes? What's gone wrong with you tonight?"

Awkwardness. He'd far rather remain at Spike's feet and must be dragged. But in the end the vampire emerges victorious, and has Wesley balanced tentatively upright. Chilly hands pet and pat over his damp arms and cheeks; glacier-blue eyes peer anxiously into his own. "Something happen? You don't look yourself. That idiot bunch been after you again? I've told you a hundred times, you to come to me if anything—"

*But I have,* Wesley tells him with his eyes, smiling with all his heart.

And Spike understands at last. He pulls Wesley to him, against the cool, smooth expanse of chest he's burned for, and holds him hard. "So it's like that again, is it?" he growls against Wesley's temple. "And you come to me for relief. Oh, hush now, hush, none of that. Shhh. You don't want Angel and his lot to hear, do you?"

Wesley hadn't realized he'd begun to weep.

"Pet, how long have you been out here? You're freezing!"

That's wrong. He's scalding. But Spike's pressing chilly lips to his own, so it doesn't matter. He returns the kiss with desperate fervor, eager to suck the peace that they offer.

"Come inside, then." Spike draws back only far enough to speak, and pulls him gently along. "Come in to the warm. Come be with me. I'll keep you safe until you're back in yourself, see? I'll share myself with you and be strong for ush."h."

The words sink in and Wesley claws at Spike's arms, deeply alarmed. Won't he, then? Won't he give him the final peace he craves?

Spike takes him by the chin. Forces him to meet his eyes. "Not tonight, Wes," he says grimly. "Not in ever, if I can help it. It's your own mind making you want this. I'll give you all of me that I can, but I won't drag you down into the valley. Do you understand me?"

Another kiss, deep and hard and plundering, ravaging his mouth. Not cool. Warm. At least as warm as the air. Spike pulls back and glares at him. "You'll do this fo, We, Wesley. I won't let you go. D'you hear me?"

Wesley can deny him nothing. He surrenders to the pull of the arms, finds himself in Spike's apartment, back in Spike's arms, being rocked as if he were a baby. His mind fumbles for purchase with each kiss and caress.

When he finds a foothold on reality he jerks back and stares. His skin is cold. Spike is shower-warm. There's no shock or horror in those blue eyes; only love and acceptance.

"You all right now, then?" There's no mistaking the relief in the vampire's face. "Scare the fucking wits out of me sometimes, you do!"

"As if you'd any to spare."

Spike laughs for sheer glee, then, grabbing him tight. "That's a bit more like it! You want to put an end to all your cares? Hold on tight, then. Spike's going to warm your blood with a proper ride."

He takes Wesley by the hips and grinds against him. Eager, lusty, Wesley rolls back, thrusting fast and hard. He's back in his mind now, back in the moment, his body molding to that of his lover's in passion and fire. Spicy as mulled wine. Bright as orgasm.

And warm. Warm as home.

At last.

* * *

For those interested...

Sonnet 4

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.