FIC CHALLENGE
Willa issued me a fic challenge on November 23/03. This is my first time accepting a challenge and I am NERVOUS! But, I wanted to try it, and here is my response. Below are Willa's parameters, followed by my ficlet. I hope I did okay.
The Guidelines:
- Any pairing
- Any rating
- 500 - 2000 words in length
- Sweetness and/or schmoopiness
- A happy or at least non-unhappy ending
Scenario: One character is reading or had just read a poem to another (note: this does not mean you have to include William or Spike). Doesn't have to be a high-class poem - could even be a limerick if you like. By reading it, they're trying to get a point across to the other person. But the person reacts in exactly the opposite manner as hoped.
You have 7 days. Take it away!
And here is my response!
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Title: Only Words
Author: Spike's Willing Slave
Disclaimers: Not mine. If they were, Spike would be treated a hell of a lot better.
Pairing: Spike and Wesley
Rating: Soft R (language and mild sexuality)
Spoilers: To 'Destiny', but sometime after that (no future spoilers)
Poem Credit: The Poet ~ William Cullen Bryant
Distribution: TBD
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Only Words
Wesley fumbled the keys out of his pocket, the load of leather-bound folios shifting in his arms as he worked it into the lock of the apartment door. The smell of oil and old, cured hide filled his nose as he held the books steady with his chin. Finally succeeding in kicking the door open, he stumbled over the threshold and deposited the stack on a nearby side table.
Home.
The apartment was small, but cozy. Bookshelves lined one wall of the living room and cornered a small roll-top desk. The desk was the only grand thing in the room. Hand-polished lacquered chestnut, blacked at the seams, its matching chair shoved askew at its side, the desk had followed him home from his visit to England. Everything else was simple and utilitarian - but this was his. Wes was the only one who hadn't accepted quarters within the towers of Wolfram and Hart. Working there was one thing, but living there was quite another consideration. While the others had embraced their new, elegant appointments with the same glee that they had their departments, Wes had sought distance. His sofa wasn't leather like Angel's, but it was comfortable. His dining table was oak, not teak like Fred's, but was equally serviceable. It was an amenable trade-off: declining the stately rooms proffer by Eve (a move that bewildered his friends), but which gave him some peace of mind. He needed this place - his solitude, his separation from the all-consuming entity that was Wolfram and Hart. This was his home. His safety. His haven.
His and Spike's.
Once made corporeal - an event that Wesley greatly regretted missing - Spike had taken his leave of Angel and the halls he'd haunted month after miserable month. To this day, he wasn't sure what had prompted him to invite Spike into his home… but he was damn grateful for having done it.
"You're home."
"Sorry I'm late," Wes replied, shrugging of his jacket. "It's been one of those days."
Spike made his way from the back hallway into the living room. Sleep-mussed hair and a rumpled black T-shirt hinted at his afternoon activities. A delicious mental image of Spike, sprawled across the crisp cotton sheets of their bed, flitted through Wes' mind. Pale skin on white sheets, peaceful sleep softening his lover's features into a visage of pure innocence - he'd never imagined seeing that in a vampire.
But then again, he never thought he'd be sharing his home, his body and his heart with one.
"Angelkins' been keepin' you later and later," Spike commented, slumping into the cushions of the sofa. "What's that about?"
"Same as usual. More evil, more research."
"Hmph," Spike intoned, reaching for the brass box on the coffee table. "You got a whole department to yourself, love. Delegate."
"Would it were that simple," Wes murmured. He frowned as he saw Spike slide something slim and white between his lips. Corporeality had returned more than Spike's need for blood, fighting and sex; there was nothing nastier to live with than a vamp going through nicotine withdrawal. A reproof sat on the tip of his tongue, until he noticed the whiteness was much smaller than a cigarette. Spike crinkled a square of cellophane in his hand and shot Wes an amused glance.
"Mmmm. Cherry," he smirked, giving the lollipop a rather obscene lick. "Want some?"
Wes gathered the folios in his arms and made his way to the sofa. Spike shifted slightly as Wes pressed close to his side, the candy forgotten as Wes placed a kiss on Spike's sticky lips. Spike purred in pleasure, his tongue gliding into Wesley's mouth, sugary sweet from the treat.
"Missed you," Wes sighed, pulling back for a needed breath. "Not used to not seeing you all the time."
"Yeah," Spike replied, brushing a stray lock of hair off Wes' forehead. "At least when I was the ghostly mascot, I had a reason to hang around you at work. Not so easy nowadays."
"Not like you're unwelcome, Spike. There's nothing keeping you from the firm."
Spike grunted. "No, nothin' at all, 'cept my glowery Grandsire." He gave the lollipop a rather vicious-sounding crunch. "Uh… how is His Grumpiness, anyway?"
"The same. Only busier. If you were there to lend a hand…"
"Forget it! I like the arrangement as is, thank you muchly. He does his thing, I do mine," Spike paused and grinned, "And I trust the people I'm with. Couldn't say the same if I was all ivory-towered like Angel."
Wes toyed with the stack of folios. "Being one of the partially cloistered has some advantages," he admitted. "I would never have found these if I weren't… on the inside."
"What're those?"
"The reason I was so late. The Council of Watchers is slowly beginning to rebuild itself. Not everything was destroyed last year in The First's attack. Many original texts and artifacts were stored off-site."
"Lucky."
"Indeed. So, when I was on my leave, I paid the Council a visit, and made a few requests from the archives. These arrived today."
Wes laid one of the folios in Spike's lap. "Recognize this?"
Spike glanced at the book. "Should I?"
"Open it."
Slipping a finger under the battered cover, he eased it open. He leafed through the sheaves of aged paper, turning them with great care against the loose leather bindings. He pulled another book from the pile, the pages crackling as he scanned their contents.
"These… these are…" Spike whispered, eyes going wide.
"Your journals."
"But… how? Where?"
Wes smiled. "Apparently they were found in Saransk in the 1930s. I never knew you'd spent time in Russia."
"Yeah," Spike murmured. "Dru wanted to visit. Had a hankering for snow. Can't say as I missed it when we left."
"Left?"
Spike shrugged. "Left. Driven out. Six of one, and all. Dru knew how to wear out our welcome pretty quickly."
"The Council had been tracking you too."
Spike shook his head. "Never knew."
Wes took one of the folios from Spike's lap and perused the pages. Thick, pulpy paper - finely milled and sepia with time - flitted over his fingertips. Even, elegant handwriting flowed like faded ink ribbons over the leaves, with every available speck of space filled with words, thoughts and sketches. Spike's thoughts, his feelings - his heart and mind from years ago - lay before him.
"When they were found and sent to the Council, it was hoped that they would provide information on your movements and activities. Rarely had they found evidence of a vampire keeping any sort of written record…"
"Bet they were disappointed," Spike interrupted. "When they saw…"
He closed the folio and shot a hesitant glance to Wesley.
"Poems? Likely so." Wes cleared his throat and continued. "What records I could find made mention of personal items supposedly belonging to… well, you. I thought it was only right that - since you're back in the world - they be returned to you. The Council had long ago deemed them ancillary to their archives. They didn't mind parting with them."
Spike nodded and gathered the worn leather books to his chest. Wes watched, puzzled. It was like someone had flipped a switch; Spike had gone from pleasantly cheeky to quiet. Withdrawn. It wasn't something he'd thought he'd ever see: Spike, seemingly, at a loss for words.
Spike's fingers worried the frayed strands of the bindings. "Wes? You didn't… um… you didn't read any, did you? Of the poems?" He spoke softly, chin to his chest, not venturing to meet his lover's dark eyes.
"Well, a few, yes. I had to be sure they were actually yours…" He faltered, noticing that Spike winced at his admission. "The sketches of Drusilla… one particular Ode to her ankle… was confirmation enough."
More than enough, he'd thought to himself. Five battered volumes of the most earnest, stilted verse he'd ever read. While the poetry was lacking, he'd found the artwork to be exquisite. Pencil and charcoal sketches of cities, sights - and, most often, Drusilla - accompanied the entries. As he'd read the pages, he'd found himself wondering if the nickname 'William the Bloody' referred to his sins as a vampire or as a poet.
But, as he'd carted the volumes home, past security and the scrutinizing glower of Angel, he'd found himself wanting to sit back down and read them again. And again. Artless as they were, they'd touched his heart. His Spike had written them. For that reason alone, they were dear. Spike, however, didn't seem sanguine about Wes having read his long-forgotten scribblings. Wes had managed the impossible: he'd embarrassed Spike.
Edging closer, Wesley hooked a finger under Spike's chin and brought his crystal blue eyes up to his own. Through smiling lips, he began…
No smooth array of phrase,
Artfully sought and ordered though it be,
Which the cold rhymer lays
Upon his page with languid industry,
Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed,
Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read.
Spike blinked. Wes leaned in to press a kiss to his vampire's perfect mouth… only to find a hand slamming into his chest and shoving him back. Spike clambered off the sofa, the fragile folios spilling onto the floor.
"You right prick!" Spike seethed. Wesley gasped for breath as Spike kicked over the coffee table and started to pace.
"I know," he fumed, "that I wasn't the most eloquent of wordsmiths - no bleedin' Shelley or William Cullen fucking Bryant - but, readin' them without my knowin', then makin' fun… Fuck you, Wes. I'm outta here!"
"For God's sake," Wes groaned, watching as Spike grabbed his coat and whirled towards the door. Jumping to his feet, Wes did the only thing he could think of: he tackled him, knocking Spike to the floor. Straddling Spike's hips, he did his best to pin the struggling vampire's arms to his sides.
"Get. Off."
"No."
"Wes…" he warned, tensing under the human's fragile grip.
Wes rocked hard against Spike's hips, tilting downward until his forehead touched his lover's.
Then, should thy verse appear
Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought,
Spike growled. "Piss off!"
Undeterred, Wes continued.
Touch the crude line with fear,
Save in the moment of impassioned thought;
Then summon back the original glow and mend
The strain with rapture that with fire was penned.
Another curse threatened to burst from Spike's lips, but was stifled as Wesley crushed a kiss to his lover's mouth.
"How can someone so creative - so sensitive - be so dim?" Wes murmured. "They're only words, Spike. It's not how they're arranged on the page, or if they rhyme or sound pretty to the ear. It's the emotion." He released his vampire's wrists and moved his hands to Spike's chest. "The heart," another kiss, long and lingering, the tip of Wes' tongue dipping into the soft depths of Spike's mouth. "And the passion. Spike, you could recite the bleeding grocery list, or write an epic about dust bunnies, and I would love it… because you wrote it. Please don't be shy with me about such things. Not now."
Spike quit struggling. Anger melted away and he relaxed under Wes' body.
"You mean… you weren't…"
"Trying to hurt you? No."
Spike's arms crept around Wes' waist. "Not like you'd have been the first to take a tear at…"
Wes' mouth found Spike's again. "Dust bunnies," he repeated.
Spike smiled that special grin, the one that made Wes flutter in all the right places.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Another grin…
"Well, love, I'll get right on that…"
…and another kiss…
"…tomorrow."
END