Title: The Likes of Him

Author: DC

Summary: Eighteen-year-old Wesley meets a just below middle-aged Ethan at a magicks pub. A brief encounter of the unusual semi-romantic kind. The pairing's Wes/Ethan, if ya can't tell. *wink*
Rating: PG-13
Author Notes: If you want this one on ya site, that's fine. Mail me with the web site addy and it's up for the taking - s'long as I get credit.
Disclaimer: Not mine. 'Is. *points at Joss* Not intending to infringe on any copyrights, I'm not making a profit.

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The Likes of Him

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Every now and again, a Watcher-in-training needs to cut loose a little bit. Let down his or her hair, so to speak. Maybe be a little spontaneous. And that was how Wesley saw it. Wearing jeans, a denim jacket and white shirt, he thought he blended in rather well in the English pub. He was sitting at the bar, having just ordered a beer and feeling rather pleased. Okay, so, by some other people's standards, drinking a beer at a clean-cut pub wasn't spontaneous, hair letting down-ish or cutting loose. But Wesley hardly ever did anything but study these days. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy studying - he did, perhaps a little too much - but it was the only thing that seemed to occupy his waking hours.

The pub, though legal and tidy a sit was, was actually a hang-out for local occultists. Wesley had been told of the place by a friend who was also studying to become a Watcher. It wasn't an evil place - demons and vampires weren't killed on sight, but they weren't liked. It was like a different, justified form of racism. This was a place for humans - witches, warlocks and anyone with any knowledge of the occult. You had to have knowledge of the occult to come to this place - it was hidden, and unless you were a demon or had the not-so-rare Habnejz stone - 6 pounds at a local magick supply store - you wouldn't be able to tell where the invisible entrance was.

The pub - the Magic Wand (even Wesley hadn't been too naive to not snicker at the name) - was only slightly busy. A few witches sat at a table in the corner, giggling like school girls and playing with Tarot cards in a very careless way, a wizard or warlock of some variety was quietly sipping a pint of beer that, when you looked at it in a position, turned slightly purple and then there was Wesley, enjoying his solitude but looking out for anyone interesting to talk to. Old Watchers and his father were the only ones he had to talk about magicks, with the exception of fellow Watchers-in-training, so the young man was open for company.

Taking a sip at the bitter beer, Wesley suppressed making a face at its strength, making eye contact with the bartender - a man in a clichéd black robe and pointy hat - briefly, who was watching for a reaction. Wesley smiled uneasily, and the middle aged bartender snorted and went back to cleaning glasses that looked clean already, as if he were searching for something to do. Wesley decided to have a go at striking conversation. "Is it usually this slow?" he asked in a friendly tone of voice.

"It gets busier," the bartender said gruffly.

"Ah," Wesley said, deciding that the end of the conversation had arrived quickly. He took another sip of the beer and looked over at the witches, who were wrapped up in their own little world. He glanced at the wizard next to him over his glasses, but the man looked content to just sit quietly and drink his oddly coloured beverage. Wesley studied the wood of the bar. Stains upon stains, but nevertheless, it was very clean, and shiny. He absently ran the tip of his fingernail across a split, enjoying his free time immensely - though he couldn't help but feel a bit bored.

The jingle of the bell started him slightly. Wesley looked over to see the door opening, which had set off the small bell. A middle-aged man stepped inside, dark brown hair and a distinguished suit that was entirely black. The corners of his eyes were slightly crinkled, indicating the coming of age, but there were no other lines, nor were there any grey strands in his hair. The man looked around vaguely before walking over to the bar, quickly surveying who sat there, and placed himself on a stool next to Wesley. He ordered a glass of scotch with ice, and looked passed Wesley and at the witches. Wesley followed his gaze to see the three women rise from their seats. One started packing up the cards they had been carelessly using, while the two scowled at the newcomer. Noses in the air, they walked out, but not before the youngest looking hissed towards the stranger:

"Arrogant dick."

The stranger smiled and laughed mockingly, eyes following them as they opened the door for the exit - all that could be seen beyond was black. "Jealousy's a killer!" he yelled just as they disappeared into the black void, where they would reappear in a dark alley, where Wesley had found the place. The dark stranger returned to his drink. "Bitches," he muttered, taking a sip.

"Ethan, you better not to be aimin' to scare off me customers," the bartender scowled.

"Calm down Nicholas," Ethan said absently. The 'tender, Nicholas, scowled even more deeper before returning to cleaning the still spotless glasses. Wesley, who had watched and listened to the scene eagerly, attempted to engage conversation with this man. Even to Wesley's amateur intuition, he sensed power - though he wasn't sure whether it was good or evil. He knew that talking with what seemed to be a very powerful warlock was not smart, and he'd been cautioned many a time by his father and his teachers. But it wasn't time for remembering tips - it was a time for being a little different.

"Hello." Wesley mentally sighed. That was pathetic. Oh well.

"Hello," Ethan said with amusement. Wesley was unsure of whether his tone was mocking or inquisitive.

"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," Wesley said, holding out a hand.

Ethan took it, eyes still tainted with amusement. "Ethan Rayne," he said, shaking Wesley's hand firmly. "Never seen you in this place before. What brings you?"

Wesley shrugged in what he hoped was a careless, casual gesture. "Just escaping, I guess. And you?" Ethan quirked an eyebrow a little bit, and Wesley inwardly frowned: what was funny?

"The alcohol. You've come to socialize. Not many make the effort to come here just to escape. Wanted to mingle with the powerful witches and wizards? Fool yourself into believing you're one of them?" Wesley started to protest as Ethan threw back his whisky, ice clattering noisily. "We all are," he said, and Wesley blinked. It was hard to know whether he was being insulted or not.

"I'm not trying to do anything, I was just given a good recommendation of the place from a friend of mine," Wesley said at last, when he'd finally thought of how to answer.

"If you insist," Ethan said, not looking at him.

"No-"

"Oi, Nick, 'nother one of these," Ethan said, cutting Wesley off. The bartender took the glass with a slightly disdainful look. "And for god sake, get a better year."

"I'm warning you Ethan. You're reputation ain't what people like," Nicholas said, glaring, as he filled the glass with a whisky. "If another customer walks outta here 'cause you're 'ere, than you're out. Decent people don't like t'deal with the likes of you." He pushed the filled glass into Ethan's hands. Nicholas, hand son the bar, turned to Wesley and stared at him pointedly. "An' I suggest you not deal with the likes of 'im either."

"I'll be fine, thank you," said Wesley, sipping his beer and looking at the bartending wizard through his glasses with a slight defiance. Nicholas rolled his eyes and went to get a broom. Interested now, the Watcher-in-training looked at Ethan. "What does he mean? What was that about a reputation?"

Ethan started to answer, when the wizard behind Wesley answered. "Meddler," he growled. Wesley turned, slightly wide-eyed at the gravel-like voice that emitted from the relatively short man. "Ethan's a meddler. He dabbles in the dark arts like those witches were tossing around those cards of fortune. Invoking demons, casting spells, brewing poisons. He's no-"

"Wingdam, you old bat," Ethan said pleasantly, despite the wizard's growl. "Shut up."

Wesley was very intrigued now. Socializing with a warlock who practices freely in the dark arts was probably something that would get him in trouble by the Watchers' Council. That was part of the reason Wesley turned back to Ethan, questions lining themselves up neatly in his throat. What the Council didn't know didn't hurt them, after all. "You invoke demons?"

"Only if I need them to do the dirty work," Ethan said casually.

"And the poisons? The spells? You do black magicks?" asked Wesley eagerly. He'd never met a dark warlock before, and found he was very intrigued. He'd read about dark magicks, of course, but he'd never dared to try them. His father had restricted him to small spells, nothing ever big - spells that pre-teens could master. It was almost insulting.

"Yes," Ethan said, smiling a slow, scary smile. "Why, pray tell, are you so interested?"

Wesley mentally winced. What a git he must appear! A little, overeager, naive git. "Curious," he managed, taking a swig of his beer to perhaps come off more mature and act like he wasn't only eighteen.

"I see," Ethan said, with the tone of someone who knows that their question wasn't properly answered. While staring at the bar surface, he almost felt Ethan draw closer. The man had magick seeping from him - even Wesley's inexperienced intuition was sending warning signals. Yes, the man toyed with dark magick - a bloody lot. Wesley decided that perhaps, he should just leave. "No, don't leave." Wesley turned his head sharply in Ethan's direction, and gasped as he was almost nose to nose with the man. "If you think loud enough, you see, I can hear you. This is what dark magick brings. I sense you've dabbled very lightly in some white magick. Ever considered practicing the dark kind?"

"No," Wesley managed, gripping the edge of the bar tightly, feeling as if he'd fall. The warlock's eyes seemed to pin him to the barstool, like he really would fall if he broke eye contact, despite his knuckle-whitening grip.

"Why not, my eager friend?"

"I'm a Watcher-in-training, I'm not allowed," he murmured. Bloody hell, he hadn't meant to say that. Wasn't it his father who had said 'silence is one of the greatest laws any witch, warlock of Watcher should abide by'.

"Watcher," Ethan whispered with a sneer. Suddenly, tepid, soft lips were pressed against Wesley's, and the younger man gave a muffled squeak that sounded a lot like 'mhmphm!' He wanted to pull away - really, he did - but he found that he couldn't. A hand with long, slender fingers was placed on his thigh, and Wesley was very surprised to find how warm Ethan's hand was. The warmth seemed to his him hard in his groin, too, despite the fact Ethan's hand was far from that area. A tongue, warmer than his lips, quickly flicked out from Ethan's lips, inviting Wesley to open his mouth, and he did. But as soon as he had let Ethan in, the older man withdrew, looking vastly amused. "You don't taste like a Watcher," he said, like a wine critic. "Nevertheless...I really should do away with you, lest you go running to that eternally annoying Council and tell them of my whereabouts. I'm trying to keep a low profile, see."

"I won't tell," Wesley said, mentally cringing at the desperation in his voice. He had hardly heard Ethan's threat - he just wanted to be kissed again. Ethan looked away to finish his scotch, and Wesley really did find it difficult to sit up straight.

"Strangely, I believe you," Ethan said, taking out his wallet. Nicholas strode over, taking the money for the two whiskies before resuming sweeping. "Oh well, it's been a nice, strange encounter. Good night to you, Wesley."

"No, wait, where are you going?" asked Wesley, trying to stand, but he found he couldn't. Ethan had placed some sort of charm on him. Ethan stood, though, smirking.

"Away," he said. He ruffled Wesley's hair, who indignantly slapped his hand away. "It's been fun. Maybe I'll meet you again, if you play Watcher to the Slayer of your generation. I like to kill 'em, you see. For a price. But for now, I'll be saying good bye to our brief encounter." Ethan turned and walked away, and before Wesley could protest, he was out the door. Wesley suddenly slid off the barstool in the direction he'd been trying to, and he stumbled, barely catching himself from falling, the charm worn off.

"Wanker," hissed Wesley under his breath, feeling like his dignity had been stripped. Well, not stripped, just trodden on. He threw back his beer, shuddering at the string bitterness, paid Nicholas and started towards the door, still aroused and royally pissed off.

"Told you that you shouldn't deal with the likes of 'im!" called Nicholas just as Wesley stepped into the black void of the exit.

End