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FIC: Knocking on Heaven's Door (Spike/Andrew - NC-17) (1/2)
TITLE: Knocking on Heaven's Door
PAIRING: Spike/Andrew (slash)
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: S7, Set during "Touched"
SUMMARY: Spike and Andrew are stuck at the mission.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: One scene is respectfully borrowed (and reworked) from one of my favorite (German) movies ever: 'Knocking on Heaven's Door' with Till Schweiger, in which two cancer patients who steal a car, because they want to watch the sun set in the ocean before they die.
Andrew and Spike are waiting inside the candlelit interior room of the mission. Andrew is lying on the floor on his belly, leaning up on his elbows, propping his head up on his hand, and swinging his feet together like a little boy. Spike is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his knees bent up, and his arms resting on his knees.
ANDREW
(rhythmically) I spy with my little eye something that begins with a "T."
SPIKE
(rolls his eyes) Tapestry.
ANDREW
(smiles) Hey, good one. How did you-
SPIKE
Tapestry's the only thing in the whole bloody room.
ANDREW
Ah...so say you, but I say look deeper. (rolls over onto his back, looks at the ceiling)
SPIKE
I'll look deep into your jugular is what I'll look at.
ANDREW
Don't spazz out.
SPIKE
I'm not- (glares at Andrew) Don't say another word.
ANDREW
(rolls back on his belly, looks at Spike excitedly) Rock, paper, scissors?
SPIKE
What's the matter with you? Don't you understand what's happening?
ANDREW
Uh...yeah. We're waiting here till it's night again so you can ride on your motorcycle without exploding.
SPIKE
And every minute we're stuck here, the slayer's out there facing hell knows what.
ANDREW
Come on. What's the worst thing that could happen to her?
Spike glares at Andrew.
Knocking on Heaven's Door - Part 1/2
"I'm hungry."
It wasn't a statement, it was a thinly veiled whine, reminiscent of a clingy puppy. Spike stifled a sigh. It had to be early afternoon. For the last hour or so he'd done his best to tune out Andrew's facile prattle, hoping to get some rest. He was weary, his bones felt like lead, and there was a growing queasiness in his gut that was hard to ignore.
The smell of blood seemed to linger in the air, mingling with stale incense fumes. The priests Caleb had murdered? Could be. Or maybe just a memory. Darla and Angelus had always had it in for nuns and monks. There had been family outings, picnics Dru had called them ….
"I'm hung-"
"Heard you the first time," Spike cut him off, unmoved. He was leaning against the wall, knees bent up, arms resting on his knees, eyes closed.
With an indignant-sounding shuffle Andrew sat up and brushed off his clothes.
"Missions don't normally come with room service," Spike finally said, patience back in place. It was true. They came with crosses and glaring tapestry angels instead. Silent reproach practically seeping out of the very walls like morning chill.
"Unless I'm mistaken they do come with a kitchen," Andrew huffed, audibly crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"That they do," Spike conceded without opening his eyes, and added with a shooing flick of his wrist: "Off you go. Don't let me stop you."
Andrew could be heard getting to his feet. Three. Two. One …
"Uh, Spike? Aren't you going to, you know, protect- uh … come along? I thought we were supposed to be a team, like Luke Skywalker and Han Solo?"
Spike took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and got to his feet.
It was the shiniest kitchen either of them had ever been in. All the surfaces looked like stainless steel, polished to hygienic perfection. Pots and pans hung from S-shaped hooks, matching ladles and knives dangled above bare work surfaces.
There were also several wooden cutting boards and a walk-in freezer.
"Wow, you know what this reminds me of?"
Spike sighed.
"The kitchen in Jurassic Park, that was just as shiny," Andrew went on, with the eagerness of youth. No, make that the obnoxiousness of being a complete and utter geek.
"No raptors here," Spike said, dismissing the dull flick with a shrug, then slipping on his predator smile. "Unless you count me."
Andrew didn't even have the grace to look nervous. Instead, he started a haphazard search, opening and closing random cupboards. On his third try he triggered a yellow cascade of fist-sized balls. They pelted to the floor in a noisy hail, bouncing here and there and rolling into every direction, under cupboards and into corners, until the floor was covered in yellow. Only they weren't tennis balls but fruit: ripe, tart-smelling lemons.
"Well, well," Spike said and picked up a lemon that had come to rest at his boot. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. He scanned the kitchen with mild interest. "If life gives you lemons, go look for tequila."
Andrew began to gather the scattered fruit, balancing them precariously in his arms. "This is a mission, Spike. You won't find any alcohol in here. Priests don't drink."
Spike ignored him and began a search of his own, yanking cupboards open and slamming them shut. Salt was easy enough to find. He also came across huge cartons of breakfast cereals and corn flakes. Spike wordlessly pulled them out, until the work surfaces were cluttered with brightly colored boxes.
Meanwhile, Andrew had managed to collect most of the stray fruit. As he bent down to pick up another one, he overbalanced and several lemons escaped the cradle of his arms. In an attempt to catch them he almost lost the others as well.
Spike shook his head, but didn't lift a finger. He leaned against the sink, crossed his ankles, tore open one of the boxes and dug in. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
After returning the lemons to their storage place, Andrew joined Spike, leaning ever so casually against the same sink, ankles crossed as well. Before he could also dig into Spike's corn flakes Spike thrust an unopened box into Andrew's arms. "Here, try these. There's plenty."
Andrew looked hurt, but obediently tore open the flap and started fishing for the prize.
Spike shoved another handful into his mouth then tossed the box away. There had to be booze here somewhere. If not tequila, then at least cooking sherry or wine. The question was: where? Spike wandered off, brow creased in concentration. Andrew followed at his heels, munching audibly. Spike whirled around, coat tails flying. "What?" he snapped. "Are you my shadow now?"
"Oh, I-uh … no?" Andrew stammered, backing off.
Spike crouched in front of a locked cupboard in a less accessible part of the room. The 'should I or shouldn't I' debate took about two seconds, then Spike slammed his palm against the lock, breaking it, and pried the door open. Bottles. In all shapes and sizes.
"And we're in business," Spike drawled, brandishing a bottle of tequila.
Armed with water glasses - because they couldn't find shot glasses - a huge tub of salt, a knife, and plenty of lemons, Spike sat down on the tiled floor and got to work.
Andrew hovered around him uncertainly.
"Will you stop breathing down my neck and just sit down," Spike groused.
The boy complied with alacrity.
Spike passed him a lemon wedge and a full glass.
"Uh…" Andrew regarded the glass uncertainly.
"Don't tell me. You never had tequila before," Spike stated, shaking his head in exasperation. "So, the duty of making you a man falls to me? Might as well. Here's what you do."
Andrew watched, mesmerized, as Spike made a fist and sprinkled a hefty pinch of salt into the little nook on the back of his palm.
Spike caught his eye. "You ready?"
Andrew nodded, suddenly dumb-struck.
"Lick." Spike's tongue came out and swooped up the white crystals in one broad lick. "Slam." Spike lifted the glass to his lips and knocked the golden liquid back in one hefty gulp. "Suck." Teeth dug into juicy flesh, cheeks hollowed almost impossibly and there were sucking, slurping noises as the sour juice disappeared down Spike's throat, making his Adam's apple bob.
Andrew's mouth was suddenly dry.
Spike exhaled and the grimace on his face smoothed into an expression of profound satisfaction. He tossed the drained lemon wedge away and licked his lips.
"Now you."
Andrew swallowed and eyed the glass in his hand. He'd sworn off alcohol forever after that horrible thing with Warren's ex-girlfriend. But this was different. Drinking with Spike was an initiation thing, a rite-of-passage, a male bonding ritual. Two guys on the same path of redemption, shoulder to shoulder, one looking out for the other, joined together by a common purpose-
"Come on. Lick, slam, suck. It's easy enough," Spike interrupted his musings. For once the vampyre didn't sound bored, or irritated, but downright amiable.
Spike was right. It was a simple enough recipe, much easier than your average chemistry assignment. But doing it with Spike watching his every move? Andrew's nervousness went off the Richter-scale and his mind blanked.
"C'mon," Spike said with a smile that was almost wicked.
Entranced, Andrew licked, swallowed (well, sipped), and sucked, never taking his eyes off Spike's face, the flavors barely registering with him. Until he began to splutter and cough, suddenly hit by what could only be called as taste overkill. And then it felt like acid ran down his throat and into his stomach only to go poof!- and combust there, flooding his insides with heat. Whoa!
Spike grinned, but then he reached over to pat his back. Spike was touching him!
When the coughing seizure subsided there were tears in his eyes, making Spike look all blurry. But the mocking smirk was unmistakable.
"Ewww," Andrew managed to say. "That's just… ew." He clutched his stomach. "Whoa, is it supposed to burn like this?"
"Once heard it said like this: First salty, like licking the sweat off your lover's skin, then hot, burning in your gut like anger, and finally the bitter tang of breaking up." For a second, a wistful, faraway look crossed Spike's face but then he shook it off and held up the bottle. "'Nother one?"
Andrew put on his bravest face, determined not to back down from the challenge, even though his stomach felt funny. "Yeah, okay."
"You get used to it," Spike told him and poured.
Indeed. The second coughing fit really didn't last as long, Andrew noted with pride.
"See?" Spike tossed back his own drink and again Andrew couldn't help staring. At Spike's mouth, his moistened lips, and that agile pink tongue. He was feeling hot and dizzy, and not entirely sure it was the tequila's fault.
Spike froze, lemon slice still between his lips. His eyes met Andrew's.
Andrew hurriedly lowered his gaze, wondering if Spike could hear his thundering heartbeat. "Did you … your first time, did you … did the same thing happen to you?"
Suck, slurp, toss. "You mean, did I look like a right ponce when I had my first strong drink?"
Andrew nodded.
"No."
"Oh."
"Don't worry 'bout it," Spike said. "Where I come from, they laced pacifiers with spirits. Didn't get carded, either. Practically grew up with wine an' sherry for din-" Beat. "Well, just saying, got used to it from an early age."
TBC
Continued in part 2/2
PAIRING: Spike/Andrew (slash)
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: S7, Set during "Touched"
SUMMARY: Spike and Andrew are stuck at the mission.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: One scene is respectfully borrowed (and reworked) from one of my favorite (German) movies ever: 'Knocking on Heaven's Door' with Till Schweiger, in which two cancer patients who steal a car, because they want to watch the sun set in the ocean before they die.
Andrew and Spike are waiting inside the candlelit interior room of the mission. Andrew is lying on the floor on his belly, leaning up on his elbows, propping his head up on his hand, and swinging his feet together like a little boy. Spike is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his knees bent up, and his arms resting on his knees.
ANDREW
(rhythmically) I spy with my little eye something that begins with a "T."
SPIKE
(rolls his eyes) Tapestry.
ANDREW
(smiles) Hey, good one. How did you-
SPIKE
Tapestry's the only thing in the whole bloody room.
ANDREW
Ah...so say you, but I say look deeper. (rolls over onto his back, looks at the ceiling)
SPIKE
I'll look deep into your jugular is what I'll look at.
ANDREW
Don't spazz out.
SPIKE
I'm not- (glares at Andrew) Don't say another word.
ANDREW
(rolls back on his belly, looks at Spike excitedly) Rock, paper, scissors?
SPIKE
What's the matter with you? Don't you understand what's happening?
ANDREW
Uh...yeah. We're waiting here till it's night again so you can ride on your motorcycle without exploding.
SPIKE
And every minute we're stuck here, the slayer's out there facing hell knows what.
ANDREW
Come on. What's the worst thing that could happen to her?
Spike glares at Andrew.
Knocking on Heaven's Door - Part 1/2
"I'm hungry."
It wasn't a statement, it was a thinly veiled whine, reminiscent of a clingy puppy. Spike stifled a sigh. It had to be early afternoon. For the last hour or so he'd done his best to tune out Andrew's facile prattle, hoping to get some rest. He was weary, his bones felt like lead, and there was a growing queasiness in his gut that was hard to ignore.
The smell of blood seemed to linger in the air, mingling with stale incense fumes. The priests Caleb had murdered? Could be. Or maybe just a memory. Darla and Angelus had always had it in for nuns and monks. There had been family outings, picnics Dru had called them ….
"I'm hung-"
"Heard you the first time," Spike cut him off, unmoved. He was leaning against the wall, knees bent up, arms resting on his knees, eyes closed.
With an indignant-sounding shuffle Andrew sat up and brushed off his clothes.
"Missions don't normally come with room service," Spike finally said, patience back in place. It was true. They came with crosses and glaring tapestry angels instead. Silent reproach practically seeping out of the very walls like morning chill.
"Unless I'm mistaken they do come with a kitchen," Andrew huffed, audibly crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"That they do," Spike conceded without opening his eyes, and added with a shooing flick of his wrist: "Off you go. Don't let me stop you."
Andrew could be heard getting to his feet. Three. Two. One …
"Uh, Spike? Aren't you going to, you know, protect- uh … come along? I thought we were supposed to be a team, like Luke Skywalker and Han Solo?"
Spike took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and got to his feet.
It was the shiniest kitchen either of them had ever been in. All the surfaces looked like stainless steel, polished to hygienic perfection. Pots and pans hung from S-shaped hooks, matching ladles and knives dangled above bare work surfaces.
There were also several wooden cutting boards and a walk-in freezer.
"Wow, you know what this reminds me of?"
Spike sighed.
"The kitchen in Jurassic Park, that was just as shiny," Andrew went on, with the eagerness of youth. No, make that the obnoxiousness of being a complete and utter geek.
"No raptors here," Spike said, dismissing the dull flick with a shrug, then slipping on his predator smile. "Unless you count me."
Andrew didn't even have the grace to look nervous. Instead, he started a haphazard search, opening and closing random cupboards. On his third try he triggered a yellow cascade of fist-sized balls. They pelted to the floor in a noisy hail, bouncing here and there and rolling into every direction, under cupboards and into corners, until the floor was covered in yellow. Only they weren't tennis balls but fruit: ripe, tart-smelling lemons.
"Well, well," Spike said and picked up a lemon that had come to rest at his boot. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. He scanned the kitchen with mild interest. "If life gives you lemons, go look for tequila."
Andrew began to gather the scattered fruit, balancing them precariously in his arms. "This is a mission, Spike. You won't find any alcohol in here. Priests don't drink."
Spike ignored him and began a search of his own, yanking cupboards open and slamming them shut. Salt was easy enough to find. He also came across huge cartons of breakfast cereals and corn flakes. Spike wordlessly pulled them out, until the work surfaces were cluttered with brightly colored boxes.
Meanwhile, Andrew had managed to collect most of the stray fruit. As he bent down to pick up another one, he overbalanced and several lemons escaped the cradle of his arms. In an attempt to catch them he almost lost the others as well.
Spike shook his head, but didn't lift a finger. He leaned against the sink, crossed his ankles, tore open one of the boxes and dug in. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
After returning the lemons to their storage place, Andrew joined Spike, leaning ever so casually against the same sink, ankles crossed as well. Before he could also dig into Spike's corn flakes Spike thrust an unopened box into Andrew's arms. "Here, try these. There's plenty."
Andrew looked hurt, but obediently tore open the flap and started fishing for the prize.
Spike shoved another handful into his mouth then tossed the box away. There had to be booze here somewhere. If not tequila, then at least cooking sherry or wine. The question was: where? Spike wandered off, brow creased in concentration. Andrew followed at his heels, munching audibly. Spike whirled around, coat tails flying. "What?" he snapped. "Are you my shadow now?"
"Oh, I-uh … no?" Andrew stammered, backing off.
Spike crouched in front of a locked cupboard in a less accessible part of the room. The 'should I or shouldn't I' debate took about two seconds, then Spike slammed his palm against the lock, breaking it, and pried the door open. Bottles. In all shapes and sizes.
"And we're in business," Spike drawled, brandishing a bottle of tequila.
Armed with water glasses - because they couldn't find shot glasses - a huge tub of salt, a knife, and plenty of lemons, Spike sat down on the tiled floor and got to work.
Andrew hovered around him uncertainly.
"Will you stop breathing down my neck and just sit down," Spike groused.
The boy complied with alacrity.
Spike passed him a lemon wedge and a full glass.
"Uh…" Andrew regarded the glass uncertainly.
"Don't tell me. You never had tequila before," Spike stated, shaking his head in exasperation. "So, the duty of making you a man falls to me? Might as well. Here's what you do."
Andrew watched, mesmerized, as Spike made a fist and sprinkled a hefty pinch of salt into the little nook on the back of his palm.
Spike caught his eye. "You ready?"
Andrew nodded, suddenly dumb-struck.
"Lick." Spike's tongue came out and swooped up the white crystals in one broad lick. "Slam." Spike lifted the glass to his lips and knocked the golden liquid back in one hefty gulp. "Suck." Teeth dug into juicy flesh, cheeks hollowed almost impossibly and there were sucking, slurping noises as the sour juice disappeared down Spike's throat, making his Adam's apple bob.
Andrew's mouth was suddenly dry.
Spike exhaled and the grimace on his face smoothed into an expression of profound satisfaction. He tossed the drained lemon wedge away and licked his lips.
"Now you."
Andrew swallowed and eyed the glass in his hand. He'd sworn off alcohol forever after that horrible thing with Warren's ex-girlfriend. But this was different. Drinking with Spike was an initiation thing, a rite-of-passage, a male bonding ritual. Two guys on the same path of redemption, shoulder to shoulder, one looking out for the other, joined together by a common purpose-
"Come on. Lick, slam, suck. It's easy enough," Spike interrupted his musings. For once the vampyre didn't sound bored, or irritated, but downright amiable.
Spike was right. It was a simple enough recipe, much easier than your average chemistry assignment. But doing it with Spike watching his every move? Andrew's nervousness went off the Richter-scale and his mind blanked.
"C'mon," Spike said with a smile that was almost wicked.
Entranced, Andrew licked, swallowed (well, sipped), and sucked, never taking his eyes off Spike's face, the flavors barely registering with him. Until he began to splutter and cough, suddenly hit by what could only be called as taste overkill. And then it felt like acid ran down his throat and into his stomach only to go poof!- and combust there, flooding his insides with heat. Whoa!
Spike grinned, but then he reached over to pat his back. Spike was touching him!
When the coughing seizure subsided there were tears in his eyes, making Spike look all blurry. But the mocking smirk was unmistakable.
"Ewww," Andrew managed to say. "That's just… ew." He clutched his stomach. "Whoa, is it supposed to burn like this?"
"Once heard it said like this: First salty, like licking the sweat off your lover's skin, then hot, burning in your gut like anger, and finally the bitter tang of breaking up." For a second, a wistful, faraway look crossed Spike's face but then he shook it off and held up the bottle. "'Nother one?"
Andrew put on his bravest face, determined not to back down from the challenge, even though his stomach felt funny. "Yeah, okay."
"You get used to it," Spike told him and poured.
Indeed. The second coughing fit really didn't last as long, Andrew noted with pride.
"See?" Spike tossed back his own drink and again Andrew couldn't help staring. At Spike's mouth, his moistened lips, and that agile pink tongue. He was feeling hot and dizzy, and not entirely sure it was the tequila's fault.
Spike froze, lemon slice still between his lips. His eyes met Andrew's.
Andrew hurriedly lowered his gaze, wondering if Spike could hear his thundering heartbeat. "Did you … your first time, did you … did the same thing happen to you?"
Suck, slurp, toss. "You mean, did I look like a right ponce when I had my first strong drink?"
Andrew nodded.
"No."
"Oh."
"Don't worry 'bout it," Spike said. "Where I come from, they laced pacifiers with spirits. Didn't get carded, either. Practically grew up with wine an' sherry for din-" Beat. "Well, just saying, got used to it from an early age."
TBC
Continued in part 2/2