Untitled Spike/Gunn fic part 1
Jul. 22nd, 2004 09:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
estepheiaFor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mefnord. Thank you sweetie. Sorry it took me so long to get started on this.
This will not turn into a long series, I promise. Three or four short parts, some smut, that's all.
TITLE: ?
PAIRING: Spike/Gunn (slash)
RATING: so far PG 13, later parts NC-17
SPOILERS: AtS S5 - set after Time Bomb but before Power Play
He wakes to a never-ending scream. Chains chime, flames crackle and pop, logs burst in a shower of sparks. Everything is familiar in a heart-stopping way, except his heart pounds in his chest louder and fiercer than a wrecking ball. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Gunn scrambles into a sitting position, wide-eyed, gasping, the smell of blood and fire in his nostrils. One hand flies to his neck but there's nothing there, no amulett on a string, no blue fingers crushing his wind-pipe. Just his throat, sore from screaming.
He's in his bed. Not a hard wooden table, but his bed, with a soft mattress and sheets that are clammy and wet, tangled round his legs like iron clamps. Not the cellar then, but his bedroom, and Mr. Randall from next door banging against the wall, yelling at him to shut the fuck up.
According to the alarm clock it's 5.19 – welcome to another fun day.
* * *
The early birds are already chirping cheerfully to greet another sunny, smog-dyed dawn, when Spike noisily stumbles down the stairs. Without ever letting go of his half-full bottle of Jim Beam, he fumbles with the lock, then staggers inside, remembering only just to slam the door shut behind him.
He doesn't quite make it to the bed. With a muttered "Home, sweet home" Spike collapses on the sofa, knocking a full ashtray off the armrest. Ashes and cigarette butts scatter over the threadbare carpet unheeded. Fully dressed, nose buried in a musty couch pillow, bottle in the cradle of one arm, Spike starts to snore.
Not a single dream penetrates his haze.
* * *
Their paths cross six hours later.
"You look terrible," Gunn remarks, when Spike steps into the elevator. The vampire looks worn and rumpled as if he slept in his clothes. In the confines of the elevator the miasma of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey that surrounds him is difficult to miss.
"Yeah?" Spike shrugs. "Same to you."
"Still sparring with Illyria?" Gunn asks, nodding dubiously at Spike's clipboard.
"S'posed to suss out what li'l girl blue's capable of, now that Percy pulled the plug an' her mightiness' powers got sucked down the drain."
"Oh… good." Remembering that Spike enjoys brawling and fighting, Gunn adds awkwardly: "Knock yourself out."
Spike answers with a dismissive wave, which could mean 'thanks' or 'never mind' or 'you too.'
They fall silent. Two floors down Spike gets off, heading for the weapons lab. With a sigh Gunn pushes the button that will take him back to a desk buried under records and files.
TBC
mefnord. Thank you sweetie. Sorry it took me so long to get started on this.This will not turn into a long series, I promise. Three or four short parts, some smut, that's all.
TITLE: ?
PAIRING: Spike/Gunn (slash)
RATING: so far PG 13, later parts NC-17
SPOILERS: AtS S5 - set after Time Bomb but before Power Play
He wakes to a never-ending scream. Chains chime, flames crackle and pop, logs burst in a shower of sparks. Everything is familiar in a heart-stopping way, except his heart pounds in his chest louder and fiercer than a wrecking ball. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Gunn scrambles into a sitting position, wide-eyed, gasping, the smell of blood and fire in his nostrils. One hand flies to his neck but there's nothing there, no amulett on a string, no blue fingers crushing his wind-pipe. Just his throat, sore from screaming.
He's in his bed. Not a hard wooden table, but his bed, with a soft mattress and sheets that are clammy and wet, tangled round his legs like iron clamps. Not the cellar then, but his bedroom, and Mr. Randall from next door banging against the wall, yelling at him to shut the fuck up.
According to the alarm clock it's 5.19 – welcome to another fun day.
* * *
The early birds are already chirping cheerfully to greet another sunny, smog-dyed dawn, when Spike noisily stumbles down the stairs. Without ever letting go of his half-full bottle of Jim Beam, he fumbles with the lock, then staggers inside, remembering only just to slam the door shut behind him.
He doesn't quite make it to the bed. With a muttered "Home, sweet home" Spike collapses on the sofa, knocking a full ashtray off the armrest. Ashes and cigarette butts scatter over the threadbare carpet unheeded. Fully dressed, nose buried in a musty couch pillow, bottle in the cradle of one arm, Spike starts to snore.
Not a single dream penetrates his haze.
* * *
Their paths cross six hours later.
"You look terrible," Gunn remarks, when Spike steps into the elevator. The vampire looks worn and rumpled as if he slept in his clothes. In the confines of the elevator the miasma of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey that surrounds him is difficult to miss.
"Yeah?" Spike shrugs. "Same to you."
"Still sparring with Illyria?" Gunn asks, nodding dubiously at Spike's clipboard.
"S'posed to suss out what li'l girl blue's capable of, now that Percy pulled the plug an' her mightiness' powers got sucked down the drain."
"Oh… good." Remembering that Spike enjoys brawling and fighting, Gunn adds awkwardly: "Knock yourself out."
Spike answers with a dismissive wave, which could mean 'thanks' or 'never mind' or 'you too.'
They fall silent. Two floors down Spike gets off, heading for the weapons lab. With a sigh Gunn pushes the button that will take him back to a desk buried under records and files.
TBC
