Disclaimers: I don't own these characters, Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, and the rest do. No copyright infringement is intended, I'm just taking them out to play.
Warnings: Drinking. Spoilers for season 3 Angel and season 6 Buffy. And slash. If you don't like that, please don't look. :)
Summary: Spike and Wesley both go home to England and run into each other. Adventure ensues.
A huge thanks to Wesleys Girl for the beta. She rocks.
**
what I've felt
what I've known
never shined through in what I've shown
never be
never see
won't see what might have been
- Unforgiven by Metallica
**
Wesley entered the small pub, smiling just a bit. The smell of cigarettes and Guinness met him, and he breathed deeply. It was good to be home. Granted, Stoke wasn't exactly home, but it was close enough. It had less sunshine than Los Angeles and far more rain, and while he was fairly certain he'd end up back there some day, he liked the familiarity of this place.
He went to the bar and ordered a pint, turning to survey the crowd as the bartender got his drink. A blonde head towards the back caught his eye, and he made his way over. As he drew closer his suspicions were confirmed; it was Spike. They'd never actually met, but Wes had heard enough from Giles, Cordelia, and sketches Angel had made that he was fairly certain he could recognize the man.
"Anyone sitting here?" He motioned to the empty seat across from Spike, rather surprised to see bloodshot eyes turning up to him. He looked almost like he'd been crying and drinking himself stupid for days. His bleached hair was beginning to grow out, with just hints of brown starting to show. Spike stared hard at him for a moment before answering.
"'M not your type." He turned back to his drink, and Wesley shrugged and sat down anyway.
"I'm Wesley Wyndam-Pryce." He held his hand out to the other man, and set it palm down on the table when Spike ignored it. "And if I'm not mistaken, you're William the Bloody."
Red eyes turned back to focus on Wesley, narrowed to dangerous slits. "Fuck you." Wesley raised an eyebrow, and Spike elaborated. "I don't know how you found me, but don't think I'm talking to you. I've heard what a worthless Watcher you were." He stood to go, but Wesley reached out and dragged him back down.
"I'm not here to stake you, or... anything, really. Just want to share a drink." Personal barbs aside, the man looked like he could use some company. Hell, Wes thought, he could use some company himself. "Why aren't you in Sunnydale?"
Spike regarded him with an odd sort of introspection before taking a deep gulp of beer and answering. "I left. I thought I had to prove something to Buffy so I...I just left."
Wesley could tell that there was more to it than that, but didn't want to push things. They sat together for awhile, discussing the weather, and the beer, and anything but important things. Wesley wondered why the vampire seemed so closed off, what had happened to make him so quiet.
"Hey, Pryce, do you believe in God?"
Wesley blinked and stared at Spike, surprised by the question. "God?"
"Yeah. Y'know, the Almighty, Creator of Everything, Giver of Life, all that." Spike played idly with a salt-shaker as he spoke, never once looking up at the other man.
"I guess I'm not really sure," Wes replied after thinking about it for a bit.
That did get Spike's attention, and he looked up with a tiny smile. "You're not sure? You, an ex-Watcher, aren't sure?" Wesley just stared at him, and he continued. "You do remember that you could burn holes through my skin with a cross, don't you?"
"Indeed." Wesley turned his beer on the table once before taking a small, thoughtful sip. "I suppose that's all based on belief, really. Vampires were around long before the inception of the Christian church, after all." He took another drink. "It's probably quite likely that I could burn you with that salt, if I had absolute, unerring faith that it was holy. It doesn't seem to have much at all to do with God, in the end."
"That sounds like an easy way out, to me." Spike had lost his cockney, slipping into a rather smooth upper class accent. "What about all those prophecies you types are so fond of reading?"
"What does it matter, Spike?" Wesley had thought a lot about those prophecies in the past, but this was getting too deep for casual drinking conversation. He didn't feel up to debating religious philosophy with a vampire.
"It matters," Spike slammed his bottle down on the table, "because I can't remember where I was."
"What?" This was making no sense. "I don't have the patience for riddles right now."
"My soul." He paused, probably for dramatic effect, and it certainly worked on his disbelieving company. Wesley raised his eyebrows, waiting for more. "I don't remember where it was. I thought that when I went to all the trouble of getting the damn thing back that there'd be some certainty. Or even a feeling, you know?" He shook his head, his eyes tracing wood grains on the table. "But there's nothing. Not a single thing, not a feeling or even a happy thought about where it was. And that makes me wonder; what happens? Obviously we don't just wink out, or retrieving souls would be impossible, right?"
Wesley agreed, but was still trying to grasp the situation. "You have a soul now? Why?"
Spike shrugged and tipped his beer in a mock toast. "Love of a woman. Oldest story in t'book, in'it?" He managed a small laugh. "I thought I was doing right by her, getting it back. And now...now that I know everything I did, I can't go back there. I could never force...make her try and love this. I'm a monster."
The sadness in that statement had Wesley almost pitying the man. He'd learned to deal with the broody 'I'm not worthy' phases that Angel went through from time to time, but Angel had had a century to put himself back together before they had met. This was pure, raw aching, and it was all Wes could do to keep himself from reaching over the chip bowl to take Spike's hand. "Do you need anything?"
Spike just shook his head with a small smile. "No. But thanks."
They sat in silence for awhile, each lost in their thoughts.
Spike finally broke the silence with a soft "Oh, yeah," and pulled a small coin from his pocket. "I bought this from a gypsy fellow a couple weeks back, and I'm not sure what it is."
He held it out to Wesley, who examined it curiously before reaching for it. It was silver and ornately engraved, though Wes couldn't make anything recognizable from the shapes at first glance. The spiraling figures were divided by a thick line down the middle.
"Figure since you're a bookish type you might know."
As Wesley took the small silver coin between his fingers, a tremendous thundering filled his ears, and the last thing he saw before the world went black was the astonished look on Spike's face.
Warnings: Drinking. Spoilers for season 3 Angel and season 6 Buffy. And slash. If you don't like that, please don't look. :)
Summary: Spike and Wesley both go home to England and run into each other. Adventure ensues.
A huge thanks to Wesleys Girl for the beta. She rocks.
**
what I've felt
what I've known
never shined through in what I've shown
never be
never see
won't see what might have been
- Unforgiven by Metallica
**
Wesley entered the small pub, smiling just a bit. The smell of cigarettes and Guinness met him, and he breathed deeply. It was good to be home. Granted, Stoke wasn't exactly home, but it was close enough. It had less sunshine than Los Angeles and far more rain, and while he was fairly certain he'd end up back there some day, he liked the familiarity of this place.
He went to the bar and ordered a pint, turning to survey the crowd as the bartender got his drink. A blonde head towards the back caught his eye, and he made his way over. As he drew closer his suspicions were confirmed; it was Spike. They'd never actually met, but Wes had heard enough from Giles, Cordelia, and sketches Angel had made that he was fairly certain he could recognize the man.
"Anyone sitting here?" He motioned to the empty seat across from Spike, rather surprised to see bloodshot eyes turning up to him. He looked almost like he'd been crying and drinking himself stupid for days. His bleached hair was beginning to grow out, with just hints of brown starting to show. Spike stared hard at him for a moment before answering.
"'M not your type." He turned back to his drink, and Wesley shrugged and sat down anyway.
"I'm Wesley Wyndam-Pryce." He held his hand out to the other man, and set it palm down on the table when Spike ignored it. "And if I'm not mistaken, you're William the Bloody."
Red eyes turned back to focus on Wesley, narrowed to dangerous slits. "Fuck you." Wesley raised an eyebrow, and Spike elaborated. "I don't know how you found me, but don't think I'm talking to you. I've heard what a worthless Watcher you were." He stood to go, but Wesley reached out and dragged him back down.
"I'm not here to stake you, or... anything, really. Just want to share a drink." Personal barbs aside, the man looked like he could use some company. Hell, Wes thought, he could use some company himself. "Why aren't you in Sunnydale?"
Spike regarded him with an odd sort of introspection before taking a deep gulp of beer and answering. "I left. I thought I had to prove something to Buffy so I...I just left."
Wesley could tell that there was more to it than that, but didn't want to push things. They sat together for awhile, discussing the weather, and the beer, and anything but important things. Wesley wondered why the vampire seemed so closed off, what had happened to make him so quiet.
"Hey, Pryce, do you believe in God?"
Wesley blinked and stared at Spike, surprised by the question. "God?"
"Yeah. Y'know, the Almighty, Creator of Everything, Giver of Life, all that." Spike played idly with a salt-shaker as he spoke, never once looking up at the other man.
"I guess I'm not really sure," Wes replied after thinking about it for a bit.
That did get Spike's attention, and he looked up with a tiny smile. "You're not sure? You, an ex-Watcher, aren't sure?" Wesley just stared at him, and he continued. "You do remember that you could burn holes through my skin with a cross, don't you?"
"Indeed." Wesley turned his beer on the table once before taking a small, thoughtful sip. "I suppose that's all based on belief, really. Vampires were around long before the inception of the Christian church, after all." He took another drink. "It's probably quite likely that I could burn you with that salt, if I had absolute, unerring faith that it was holy. It doesn't seem to have much at all to do with God, in the end."
"That sounds like an easy way out, to me." Spike had lost his cockney, slipping into a rather smooth upper class accent. "What about all those prophecies you types are so fond of reading?"
"What does it matter, Spike?" Wesley had thought a lot about those prophecies in the past, but this was getting too deep for casual drinking conversation. He didn't feel up to debating religious philosophy with a vampire.
"It matters," Spike slammed his bottle down on the table, "because I can't remember where I was."
"What?" This was making no sense. "I don't have the patience for riddles right now."
"My soul." He paused, probably for dramatic effect, and it certainly worked on his disbelieving company. Wesley raised his eyebrows, waiting for more. "I don't remember where it was. I thought that when I went to all the trouble of getting the damn thing back that there'd be some certainty. Or even a feeling, you know?" He shook his head, his eyes tracing wood grains on the table. "But there's nothing. Not a single thing, not a feeling or even a happy thought about where it was. And that makes me wonder; what happens? Obviously we don't just wink out, or retrieving souls would be impossible, right?"
Wesley agreed, but was still trying to grasp the situation. "You have a soul now? Why?"
Spike shrugged and tipped his beer in a mock toast. "Love of a woman. Oldest story in t'book, in'it?" He managed a small laugh. "I thought I was doing right by her, getting it back. And now...now that I know everything I did, I can't go back there. I could never force...make her try and love this. I'm a monster."
The sadness in that statement had Wesley almost pitying the man. He'd learned to deal with the broody 'I'm not worthy' phases that Angel went through from time to time, but Angel had had a century to put himself back together before they had met. This was pure, raw aching, and it was all Wes could do to keep himself from reaching over the chip bowl to take Spike's hand. "Do you need anything?"
Spike just shook his head with a small smile. "No. But thanks."
They sat in silence for awhile, each lost in their thoughts.
Spike finally broke the silence with a soft "Oh, yeah," and pulled a small coin from his pocket. "I bought this from a gypsy fellow a couple weeks back, and I'm not sure what it is."
He held it out to Wesley, who examined it curiously before reaching for it. It was silver and ornately engraved, though Wes couldn't make anything recognizable from the shapes at first glance. The spiraling figures were divided by a thick line down the middle.
"Figure since you're a bookish type you might know."
As Wesley took the small silver coin between his fingers, a tremendous thundering filled his ears, and the last thing he saw before the world went black was the astonished look on Spike's face.